


The Thinning Line

by Loreyulia, redroses100



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jim isn't as crazy as you'd think..., M/M, Mycroft is well... Mycroft, Physical and emotional healing, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Read at Your Own Risk, Sebastian Moran has a cockney accent because I can, Seriously this story is pretty fucked up guy's..., Sherlock is crazy..., Torture, based off of an rp that redroses100 and I are working on, we have problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loreyulia/pseuds/Loreyulia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redroses100/pseuds/redroses100
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a very thin line we all must tread. The difference between right or wrong, good versus evil and all the grey areas inbetween. Sherlock Holmes toed that invisible line every single day he woke up to greet the dreary world. The barrier between high functioning Sociopath and crazed Psychopath isn't as thick as he would have you believe. It only takes one Irish mad man to push him over the edge, and give in to that other side he denied himself. This is what happens when Genius clearly turns into Madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Thinning Line 

Chapter One: Psychological Warfare 

John knows, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, that he will never feel safe again. Running around with Sherlock, he got used to the fact that danger was everywhere. But being snatched off of the street on his way to meet Sarah in broad DAYLIGHT... it just feels like a whole new level of low. Being strapped to a bomb, and meeting Jim Moriarty just makes things exponentially worse...

“John Watson.” The criminal drawls his name, and John grits his teeth. He's looking straight ahead of himself, fervently refusing to look at the man who could be his murderer. “You are a stubborn one, aren't you John?” Moriarty smirks to himself, observing the good doctor closely. 

“I'm sure by now you've guessed who I am, and why you're here.” John doesn't even blink to acknowledge him. 

Moriarty isn't really angered by John's behavior, but he is annoyed, and for him, that's close enough. He charges forward and grabs John's face in his hand, forcing the blond to look at him. When those blue eyes finally meet his, Moriarty grins and rubs his thumb in slow circles on John's jaw. “At first I didn't understand what Sherlock sees in you...but I think I'm starting to see it. His little pet, his little live in soldier.” Moriarty coos, and the disgust on John's face makes him giggle. 

“I'm not his pet.” John sneers, finally breaking his silence, which only makes Moriarty happier. 

“Oh but you are, my dear. Or do you really not see it?” Moriarty fades off, obviously trying to goad John into asking a question. After a few minutes it works and John growls before asking,

“See what?” 

“Oh, I'm so glad you asked. You see, there's this very fine line that Sherlock walks, that we all walk in one way or another. His line happens to be the separation between harmless little sociopath and violent psychopath. And it's a thinning line, John. Any day now, it could just vanish and the Sherlock you know and love will go bye bye.” Moriarty sounds far too happy about that prospect, and John fights the urge to strangle the man. The fact that his hands are cuffed behind his back is probably the only thing that really stops him at this point. 

“You think you know Sherlock Holmes. But you don't.” John hisses, furious on behalf of his friend. 

“Oh I know more than you ever will, Johnny Boy. And I know just how to exploit it too. I'm telling you this as a friendly warning...if you have any kind of self preservation...you'll stay far away from Sherlock Holmes. He's not what you think he is, little soldier, and you'll only get hurt by staying.” Moriarty grins, as John's eyes narrow further. It's pretty obvious that John doesn't believe him, but that's hardly Jim's problem. If John wants to let his blind faith be the end of him, that's his problem. “You poor oblivious fool.” Moriarty murmurs, finally releasing John's face. 

“I will never let you poison my mind against my friend.” John bites out harshly.

“After all this is over, I'm sure you'll look back on this moment and regret that. I hope I get to see your face when you do.” Moriarty sneers confidently. John opens his mouth to retort when Moriarty’s mobile buzzes with a text message. “Oh, too bad, the fun's over for now. Sherlock's here, you see. Now, you're going to be a good little boy and say exactly what I tell you to.” He taps the earpiece in John's ear with a smirk before walking off; a tall, and buff, blond man escorting John in the opposite direction. 

The pool is quiet for a few minutes, and John fidgets in the handcuffs until the man takes them off. And then Sherlock arrives, and for a moment the consulting detective even believes that John is Moriarty. But then the real evil mastermind reveals himself and John can't help but want to punch the enthusiastic murderer in his smarmy, Irish face now that his hands are free. Moriarty has the calmest demeanor John Watson has ever witnessed, even with a gun pointed directly at his face. He strolls right on in, wearing nothing but the finest of suits, as if the whole world dances in the palm of his hand. 

But, from what John has experienced of the criminal, Moriarty probably believes it does. 

“I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you.” Moriarty sounds proud of himself, and John is dismayed to see respect sparkle like cold fire in Sherlock's eyes as well. 

“Dear Jim...please will you fix it for me...to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me so I can disappear to South America?” Sherlock pantomimes, looking down his pointed nose at Jim. A mistake, John thinks to himself. Sherlock shouldn't underestimate Moriarty, even if John will never admit that out loud. 

“Just so.” Moriarty grins, a wicked gleam in his eyes.  

“Consulting criminal. Brilliant.” John closes his eyes, trying to pretend that Sherlock did not just compliment James Moriarty for his “work”. 

“Isn't it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will.” Moriarty drawls, his voice getting less dramatic and more deadly as he speaks. 

“I did.” Sherlock replies, sounding self satisfied, as he cocks the gun resting in his steady hands. John wonders then, briefly of course, as being strapped to bomb was less that an ideal moment to think on things, if Sherlock has ever actually shot someone before. Or if this will be the first life his friend will ever take. 

“You've come the closest.” Moriarty narrows his eyes slightly. “And now you're in my way.” 

“Thank you.” Sherlock replies quickly, and smugly.

“I didn't mean it as a compliment.” 

“Yes you did.”

“Yeah, okay, I did.” Moriarty sighs, seeming to merely placate Sherlock to shut him up. “But the flirting's over Sherlock, daddy's had enough now!” The Consulting Criminal speaks in a singsong voice that makes John cringe a little. “I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning...my dear. Back off.” 

John clenches his hands into fists, because really, Moriarty has to know that Sherlock will never back off. Especially if commanded by a deranged psychopath to do so. He's just baiting the genius, basically saying, 'catch me if you can'. “Although I have loved this, this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

“People have died.” Sherlock cuts in icily, as soon as Moriarty stops talking. 

“That's what people DO!” The Irishman shouts with unmasked glee. John shakes his head slightly, unable to help it. How can Moriarty be like this? He wonders, again letting his mind take over in a situation where he should be focused on getting free. What happened to this insane man to make him so completely off his rocker? 

“I will stop you.” Sherlock murmurs, and he looks so very determined.

“Sherlock don't be so naïve, it's not a good look for you darling. You won't stop me. In fact, I think you may join me. Bad IS always better.” Moriarty purrs, and John scrunches up his nose in disgust.

Sherlock's brow raises almost imperceptibly and a sneer crosses his handsome face. “Come now, if you   
believe that you can change me with paltry words of temptation, I regret to inform you that you shall be rather disappointed.” Sherlock sounds so sure of himself, but Moriarty only chuckles. 

“Surely there's something you've always wanted but have never been able to have.” The mad man's eyes flick to John so briefly that the detective may have imagined it. “Something only being bad could bring you.” Moriarty finishes, one eyebrow raised. 

The Consulting Detective stiffens, watching Moriarty through a slitted glare as he leans against John. The physical contact has John looking lost, and distressed by the close proximity of his possible killer. “I am growing tired of you.” Sherlock almost snaps, his patience growing thin in the face of Moriarty's brand of insanity. 

Moriarty smirks dangerously, leaning further into John's personal space. He has the gall to sniff at him; a predatory smile on his pale face all the while. “I'm sure there are a lot of things you're tired of. Tired of waiting for...” 

"I would advise you, to remove yourself from John's person..." Sherlock steps forward slowly, face full of cold fury. "I am tired of this." 

"And I would advise you to pick your side carefully Sherlock. Maybe you just need some time to consider the benefits of the Dark Side." The deranged Irishman remarks in his playful and deadly voice. He strokes John's cheek once, looking at the ex-army doctor thoughtfully, before turning to walk away. 

Sherlock sees John flinch slightly at Moriarty's touch, and something hot and possessive curls in his gut at the sight. He grits his teeth, willing the feeling to subside and covers up his discomfort by drawling, "I have no interest in becoming something so predictable." 

The Consulting Criminal chuckles darkly, not even sparing his nemesis a glance over his shoulder. "I wonder if you will be so adamant after another week of staring at the thing you crave the most of all, without being able to have it. Ciao Sherlock." 

The detective in question glanced discreetly at John one more time, and something clenches in his chest, as for a moment Sherlock entertains the notion of taking the one thing he has ever truly desired. But he banishes those thoughts as soon as they appear, because it terrifies him and he doesn't know how to handle that. 

John waits until Moriarty is gone to lose the tension in his shoulders, but there is still a trace of it that lingers just below the surface, if you knew what to look for. "What in the bloody hell was that?" He exclaims, blue eyes swiveling from the spot where Moriarty once stood, and then to Sherlock. Then he looks down at himself, and remembers that he is still strapped to Semtex; and so with hands that are surprisingly still, John removes the explosively rigged jacket and sets it on the ground gingerly. 

Sherlock looks away, confusion pinching his brow. "I don't know John..." Suddenly he turns back eying his only friend thoughtfully. After a few moments, Sherlock clears his throat and looks away stating blandly, "No matter. Come, we should not dally here." 

John nods obediently, still somewhat dazed and not really sure about what just happened. He follows behind Sherlock as he walks away briskly, because what the hell else could he do after that whole debacle? "W-We should call Lestrade o-or Mycroft...or someone." There, sensible, in control John Watson was returning, even if he was still rather shaken. 

Sherlock pauses briefly before replying, "...Yes, we should." He cocks his head to the side, noticing how his friend is shaking a bit in shock, so the detective whips out his cell instead of asking John to call Lestrade. 

However, John does not miss the concern in Sherlock's eyes and rolls his own in fond exasperation. "I’ll be fine in a few moments, I did survive Afghanistan after all." He quips dryly, smiling a tad at the absurdly dark sense of humor most people found off putting, but Sherlock always appreciated. 

He merely frowns for a moment, before Lestrade picks up on the other end. Sherlock quickly fills him in on the situation, barking sharp and concise replies into the speaker. After a few minutes, he hangs up with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. 

"I think we could both use some tea. Come on." 

The weary detective cocks his head to the side, but nods resolutely. "Yes...I think for once some tea could help...or something stronger." Sherlock adds wistfully as an after thought. Sure he personally meant Cocaine, but he knew John would interpret it as booze. 

John forces a soft chuckle before replying, "I think I may agree." 

A wane smile lifts Sherlock's shapely lips, but it disappears quickly as dark thoughts consume his mind again. Outwardly he seems fine. Cool. Calm. And collected. On the inside however, he is a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and ideals; and it's making him want to tear his hair out in frustration. Instead, he decides to focus on marching decisively to the closest diner. 

John watches his friend warily, knowing he's not as composed as he appears. "Let's just go home Sherlock. I have some whiskey hidden away that we can drink." 

An elegant eyebrow quirks upward at that, especially since Sherlock knows John doesn't like to drink very often. "Well...I would not object, if you are willing to indulge me." 

John gives Sherlock a small smile in response. He was no detective, or criminal mastermind, but he had enough good sense in that head of his, to know that some thing was bugging his flatmate. "You know that you can talk to me if you're upset, right?" John leveled Sherlock with a concerned sort of smile. 

The Consulting Detective smiles back indulgently. "John, you know me enough by now- at least I would like to think that you do- to know that I never need to talk about what you believe troubles me." John Watson is torn for a moment between being offended or just ignoring the detective's usual barbs, before he shrugs, and starts walking again. 

Sherlock knows instantly that his words have upset John, but he's so distracted by these newly planted thoughts inside his head, that he chooses to ignore his friends feelings as they continue to march on in silence.   
~   
221b is dark inside but John doesn't turn on any lights, except the small one above the sink in the kitchen. Just enough light to make tea. 

Sherlock trails in after him, and shucks off his Bellstaff at the door, hanging it on the peg. Then he unwinds his scarf, and drapes it over his coat. "I thought you said we were having something stronger?" The detective exclaims, tone dry and brittle. 

John just glances at his flatmate over his shoulder and sighs. "Whiskey's in the sock drawer." 

Sherlock nods, quick and succinct, before walking briskly towards John's room. He slides the door open a little reverently, for his flatmate rarely allow's him to enter his private domain; but, since this has been Sherlock's flat for years, he knows where the light switch is, so there is no fumbling blindly in the darkness before John's room is illuminated in the soft glow of florescent light. He makes his way over to John's drawer, and opens the top one, for the ex-army doctor was a creature of habit and Sherlock knows without knowing that this is his sock drawer. The bottle of whiskey, barely even touched, is easy to see among John's black dress, and fuzzy knit socks; but the detective hesitates for a moment when he catches sight of his friends underwear as well in the drawer. Most of them are regular white briefs, but there are some silky boxers and, tucked away in an obscure corner, a rather sexy red banana hammock. 

Sherlock smiles at the absurdity of it, as well as the fact that it is shoved almost shamefully into a corner. Quickly the tiny smile turns dark and fierce upon his lips. The Consulting Detective is filled with a deep urge, and before he can really register what he's doing, he has the underwear pressed to his face, and inhales deeply. 

John had taken the kettle off when it started steaming and poured two cups. Rather than yell to Sherlock, he picks up the cups and ascends the stairs, freezing in the doorway when he see's what his flatmate is doing. "...Sherlock?" 

The man in question's shoulders immediately stiffen, back now ramrod straight when he hears John's voice in the doorway. Sherlock turns, trying to fight the horrifying flush that attempts to devour his face. Clearing his throat awkwardly, the detective looks to the underwear still in his hands, and then to his flatmate's rather shell shocked expression. "Sorry John...I uh, was- well your clothes smelled differently and I was wondering if you changed detergent." Sherlock supplies, knowing that it was a flimsy lie, but needing something to cover up the inexcusable act John just walked into. 

The shorter of the two just gapes at Sherlock, the hot tea in his hands the only thing keeping him grounded for a few moments. His thoughts return to the scene back at the pool, to the sweet temptations Moriarty kept feeding his friend. Despite what every one thinks, John Watson is not stupid, and he knows exactly what Moriarty was suggesting. And at the moment, he is nervous that Sherlock is actually considering it. "No it's the same detergent." 

Sherlock looks away and then, realizing that he's still clutching tightly (until his slender knuckles are white) to John's underwear, and drops them quickly back into the drawer. "Yes...well- my mistake." He murmurs distractedly. Then the detective grabs for the bottle of whiskey, and holds it out to his flatmate asking, "Shall we retire to the living room now?" 

"Sherlock.. I think we need to talk..." John carefully puts down the cups of tea on his nightstand, before crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

"About what?" Sherlock replies, voice almost border lining on hysteria, and that frightens him; because he is not supposed to feel such weak and ridiculous emotions. He was a high functioning Sociopath- and that entailed disconnecting from severe emotions; because there was a very fine line between killing some one through rational process, or because you enjoy it. Psychopath's felt too much, and that's why they kill in droves, instead of taking out the select few. 

John sighs and gestures for his flatmate to sit. When he doesn't, the doctor sighs again. "We need to talk about what Moriarty said at the pool." Always leave it to John Watson to be blunt, and cut to the chase. 

Sherlock's fingers twitch at his sides, John's words striking a chord in him. "There's nothing to talk about John, and the sooner you realize this, the sooner we can go downstairs, have some tea and drink some whiskey- and forget this night ever happened." 

"Sherlock, I am not going to forget this! Moriarty is a sick bastard and if he's gotten into your head, we need to talk about it! I'm not as dim as you think I am and I know that something is not right with you!" John exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch and intensity the more he spoke. He was leveling his friend with his fiercest look of determined fortitude; the look he perfected from his army days. 

The detective's eyes harden immediately, and for the first time he feels cold fury directed towards his flatmate and friend, well up in his chest. "I am not so weak, as to let some psychopath derail my integrity, with mere words and suggestions!" Sherlock bellows, and now his chest is heaving as he tries desperately to control this inexplicable rage inside himself. No, no... anger is bad, don't let it control you, you are above this! 

John watches Sherlock warily, a bit scared by his violent reaction. "It's only helping to prove my point. Sherlock, I'm not saying that you're weak. But Moriarty is a master manipulator who really wants you to be on his side. It's completely justifiable that I'm hesitant about this whole situation!" 

The Consulting Detective is visibly vibrating with anger now, all of his deepest and darkest thoughts- the things he kept buried because he knew it is beneath him to entertain such notions- swirling and coalescing into a crescendo in his mind, until he finally snaps. "What do you know John?" Sherlock barks coldly, his cool mask of indifference slipping, to be replaced by an arrogant sneer. "You know nothing of my mind! I will not be so easily corrupted, unlike you- feeble, and weak willed little thing your mind is!" 

John's own anger starts to flare and he gives his friend a sharp glare, tightening his left hand into a fist. "So you're going to stand there, shaking with anger and insulting me, and then try to tell me that nothing is wrong?! You have never acted like this before, and I'm trying to talk to you and help you! But if you prefer it, I’ll leave!" 

'Give into the Dark Side.' Sherlock wants to vomit at the smooth, seductive quality those words possess; that singsong, lilting accent turning his skin cold and making him want to retch the sparse contents in his stomach. He looks to the bottle in his hands, the heavy cool texture of glass and assesses the weight as a sick thought rears its ugly head. The detective's gaze shifts to John, and he idly wonders how much force it would take to cave in his flatmate's skull, with just this bottle alone- and the sickness in him worsens, until he is a cold and clammy mess of anger, revulsion, and nerves...but, he stays silent, not trusting himself to open his mouth, without bile spilling forth. 

"Sherlock, we are either going to talk or I am going to leave! You choose!" 

Sherlock goes to open his mouth, but that little voice in his head (the one that now suspiciously sounds like Moriarty's instead of his own) interrupts once more. 'Isn't there anything you want? Something you desire? I can take anything that I want. Doesn't that sound appealing?' 

A shiver wracks his spine, because there has only ever been one thing that Sherlock Holmes desired; and he was standing mere feet away from the detective, demanding him to speak or he will leave. And maybe that's what does it... the easy way John can abandon him, when Sherlock did not fit the ideal image of what a friend should be. The way his friend could just leave him behind, and never look back when things got dangerous. And so, without letting himself think about it, Sherlock is striding quickly forward- only hefting the heavy weight of a glass bottle full of whiskey, when it is too late for John to react. 

John tries to escape Sherlock's first swing, which catches on his ear, the blunt edge of the bottom of the bottle chipping, leaving a scratch on his skin. A thin line of blood trails down John's temple, and when he backs up to avoid the next, he is met by the wall and can't even raise his hands before the edge of the bottle slams into the side of his face, knocking him to the ground. 

Sherlock quickly slings his slender legs on either side of John's hips, straddling him with all of the weight that he possessed. He knows that John is much stronger than him, and so he brings the blunt edge of the bottom of the bottle crashing down against the side of his skull. The first blow knocks John's head to the side, and Sherlock smiles wickedly at the almost erotic sight- his friends head pressed demurely against the floor boards, and his beautiful neck fully exposed. 

The second blow brings blood, thick and heady, trailing down John's temple and along his delicate ear. And finally the third blow silences his cries, as his blue eyes roll back, like he had reached the peak of pleasure, and darkness finally takes him. Sherlock knelt there, breathing heavily for a few moments as his heart thundered in his chest- and then, his smile widens, almost unhinging his jaw it seems because of the manic and gleeful sensation thrumming through his veins. It was then that Sherlock Holmes realized, without a single trace of doubt or fear, that he rather enjoyed the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream, and the warm and firm body strewn out beneath him.


	2. Chapter Two: Step right over the line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which brutal things happen to John Watson, and it makes me a little dismayed with myself that I can write this...

The Thinning Line 

Chapter Two: Step right over the line

When John Watson finally returns to consciousness he finds that his eyes are hard to open, and the left eye feels almost fused shut by something thick and gooey. Slowly he becomes more aware of his surroundings, and fuzzy recollections return to him in frightening clarity. Sherlock's attack and the blood dripping down his own face before his flatmate drove John into unconsciousness. John groans, pain throbbing all through his head and wrists as well, when he tries to move them. 

"I see you're finally awake." Sherlock Holmes drawls, almost as if this was just another normal day, where John has slept in, and the detective had to chastise his friend for keeping him waiting for something important.

John flinches, and looks blearily at his friend turned assailant. His eyesight is fuzzy, but John can tell that Sherlock is not wearing a shirt; because even with his throbbing head and unfocused gaze, it would be hard to miss all that pale flesh glimmering in the moonlight. Looking down at himself, the blond see's that he is wearing far less than that. John twists his hands again, glancing up and realizing that Sherlock handcuffed them to his headboard. "S-Sherlock what are you doing? What is this?"

A rather Cheshire like grin splits the detectives lips apart. The sight of John Watson sprawled out across his bed, pale skin looking far too angelic against the deep blue of the silk sheets. John's wrists are rubbed red, and the side of his face is caked in rusty hued blood. It all mixes together into a potent cocktail, that sends pleasure thrumming through every nerve in Sherlock's body. "Shh." He whispers, still eying his flatmate like a glass of water to a man dying of thirst. "Just be still John, don't waste what little energy you have left."

"S-Sherlock...I need to go to Hospital...I have...a– a concussion..." John babbles, voice soft and maybe tinged with a bit of fear. 

The detective walks over to the side of the bed, and presses his slender fingers gingerly against John's temple. A few flakes of blood rub off, and onto Sherlock's digits and he brings them up to his face to study the red brown color against his pale skin. A look flashes through Sherlock's multi colored eyes, a brief glimpse into the overly curious man-child that he was. Then, his tongue flicks out, and Sherlock laps up the flakes of blood; a pleasured smile full of pure intoxication stretching over his lips.

John's stomach lurches at the sight, and he tugs at his raw wrists, hoping that maybe Sherlock didn't tighten the cuffs enough. But all he gets for his efforts, is more chafing on his wrists. "Sherlock, knock it off, this is going too far!"

Sherlock's gaze flicks over to his captive, and for a moment he looks surprised; as if the detective had forgotten John was there. A beatific smile graces his features as Sherlock stoops down and stares intently into John's blue-grey eyes. He see's John's pupils are dilated in fear, but there is no hazy quality to his flatmate's eyes. "Don't worry John." The detective speaks, his tone light and cajoling. "You do not have a concussion."

"And which of us is the doctor again?" John snarls, wanting so badly to punch the Consulting Detective in the face; maybe break one of his ridiculously high cheek bones... "Let me go now Sherlock and I won't call Lestrade for this."

Sherlock looks up coldly, growing rather tired of John's waspish behavior. "And how prey-tell are you going to manage calling Lestrade?" His fingers trail over the blond's cuffed wrists, and he watches with vague satisfaction as the salt from his fingertips stings the raw flesh, causing John to flinch.

John grits his teeth to keep from showing any weakness and glares at Sherlock. "You can't keep me like this forever. Mrs. Hudson will get suspicious, and Sarah too. And I highly doubt Mycroft will let you get away with this."

One of Sherlock's eyebrows raises slightly, and he gives John a patronizing look. "Do you not think I haven't thought of that yet? Honestly John, I thought you knew me better..." 

"Sherlock enough! Stop this now!" 

Sherlock huffs out a sigh full of lost patience, and irritation. Some thing dark, and menacing, fills his steely blue eyes. "If you do not stop your useless prattling, I have a rather lovely ball gag in my closet, that I can stuff between those pretty lips of yours. I would rather enjoy fucking that sinful mouth, but if I have to resort to such measures I will, though I will become sorely cross with you."

"Sherlock, have you lost your fucking mind?! This is all crazy!"

"Lost my mind?" The detective questions, voice low and steady despite everything. "No John, I am merely taking what I want. I have...denied myself such desires all my life, because I was told that with great power, comes great responsibility. I was not allowed to be curious of the darker things, for every one knew that with a mind like mine...anything could be possible. But, I have grown tired of playing the good guy John, it has led me no where! Hours of tedium, years of denying myself of the things I truly want..." Here he pauses to cup the blond's face, almost tenderly brushing his fingers against the wound by John's temple. "It's time that I give in, and enjoy all of life's possibilities."

John jerks his face out of Sherlock's hands, ignoring the pain that such a sharp movement brings. "Fucking hell Sherlock, you're talking like Moriarty! This is exactly what I was worried would happen!"

A scowl deepens the furrow of Sherlock's brow, when John jerks away. He stares into the blond's hate filled eyes for a moment before he shrugs. "Perhaps I will have to resort to the ball gag after all...you're beginning to annoy me, and I find that it is quite ruining the moment."

"Sherlock you have to stop this! This is wrong, on so many levels!" John's eyes widen slightly against their will, because this whole situation was out of hand. 

"I will do what I want, and you will shut your prattling mouth before I sew it shut!" Sherlock practically screams, inches away from John's face and eyes blazing with cold fury.

"If you think I’ll just sit quietly while you become the very thing you were fighting against, you are an idiot!!" John shouts back, pulling at his wrists so hard that the headboard creaks with the strain and a dribble of blood runs down his arm.

Sherlock's eyes harden further, and they flick over to the line of crimson running down the pale expanse of the blond's fore arm. He leans over, and laps it up with one quick and decisive flick of his tongue, and pulls back. The detective's lips and teeth are now stained red, and he licks them absently as he stares down at John. "It's too late John, I have made up my mind. I have chosen a new path to tread, and I care not if you follow me willingly or not."

"You're fucking sick Sherlock!" John growls, and tries not to shudder from his flatmate's actions. 

Rolling his eyes, patience finally snapping, Sherlock strikes John hard across the bloody scab along the side of his face. It cracks, and fresh blood begins to dribble forth, falling and staining the crisp white linen of Sherlock's pillow case. "Tsk tsk John, now you've caused me to make a mess..." 

John takes a few breaths to steady himself, so he won't pass out or throw up from the pain, before turning cold eyes on his flatmate. "Fuck you."

Sherlock's hands smooth down, and over John's quivering chest; rubbing firm circles on his pale pink nipples. "John, if any one is to be doing any fucking, it will be me..." His tone is dark and heavy, full of promises of pleasure and pain.

The blond grits his teeth and waits for Sherlock to move a little lower, before raising his knee and slamming it into the detective's ribs.

Sherlock doubles over, a wheezing cough exploding forth. Clutching at his sore ribs, Sherlock turns the coldest and most deadly glare that he can muster, on John. "Perhaps I should have tied your legs down as well...or maybe, I should break them to teach you a lesson John? You know what they say, 'Pain is the only teacher we truly learn from' ”.

"Sherlock I swear to any God there is that I will make you pay for this." John hisses out between his teeth.

"I highly doubt you're in any position to issue threats, John." Sherlock's voice is mocking, and cold. "Now, I am growing weary of this little cat and mouse game...so either you start to behave like good little pet- or, I will show you pain, the likes of which you have never known before."

"Fucking call me a pet again and I won't mind the broken legs, it'll be worth it."

Sighing heavily Sherlock shrugs, as if he has finally decided to do something he has no energy to really do, but will to do it any ways. "Well, since you insist on pain and humiliation, that is what you shall receive." He stands up fluidly, and walks over to his closet. After a few moments, Sherlock turns back to the blond on his bed, holding a ball gag and a lead pipe. "I suppose I can give you one last chance to behave like a good pet John... I am nothing if not fair."

John just glares, all the hate he is feeling pouring out through his blue eyes and his twisted sneer.

"Very well, have it your way John..." Sherlock sighs, resigning himself to what must be done. He walks over, and before John has the chance to even twitch a muscle, brings the lead pipe down and smashes it against one of the blond's knee caps. There is the spine chilling sound of splintering bone, before John's screams drown out the noise.

"Fuck!" The doctor tries to kick at Sherlock with his other leg, but every movement makes his now broken leg throb with unimaginable agony. 

"Don't struggle John, you chose the hard way, now deal with the consequences like a man." Sherlock exclaims, and then proceeds to smash in John's other kneecap.

"You fucking psycho!" John shrieks, face red from pain, and tears welling up in his eyes.

Sherlock merely rolls his eyes, a long suffering sigh puffing passed his lips. "Yes yes, waste your energy on paltry insults..." He droll's lazily, indifferent to the off angle of the blond's legs, and the tears unwillingly streaming down his face.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!"

"John." The detective's tone is scolding, as if he was speaking to a dull witted child. "We both know you don't have it in you to kill me. We both know when the time comes, you'll try to save me- bring me back from the brink of despair, like the little hero you always love to be."

"Yeah? Well, I never thought you'd become a fucking Moriarty mini me either! I guess we're both surprising each other!" 

"I am nothing like Moriarty!" Sherlock snaps, and moves forward to press his hand down onto one of John's shattered kneecaps, relishing in the blond's scream full of pure agony. "He is a dull, witless, idiot!"

"And just as fucking crazy as you!" John manages to yell between screams.

In one fluid motion, Sherlock straddles the blond's hips and looms over him. "I have grown tired of waiting John..." He almost pouts sullenly. "Your attitude has greatly dampened my mood. I will have what I want..." Sherlock presses himself closer to his captive, their shirtless chests melding together skin on skin as he rakes his nose up the column of John's neck, and inhales the scent of adrenaline and fear upon him.

"Get the fuck off of me!" John tries to knock the crazed detective off, but is in so much pain from nearly every part of his body, that he just struggles weakly. 

Sherlock presses a harsh bite into the side of John's neck, sharp canines piercing the skin and drawing two beautiful dots of ruby red blood. He lets them trail down the blond's neck, and pool in the dip of his clavicle, before lapping them up. The detective groans in ecstasy, the metallic tang so sweet and bitter on his tongue.

"Sherlock how can you do this? I thought you were smart, rational. How do you rationalize this?"

The man in question looks up at John's pinched and pained expression, the thin and pale quality of his skin and the clammy sheen of sweat that covers it. Sherlock's bright blue eyes are dark, and pupils dilated from the pleasure being so close to his desires has brought him. "Because, I have desired you for far too long, and I am tired of chasing after things that stay just beyond my reach."

John's glare only gets darker. "Maybe you just should've asked for a lay. I probably would have been happy to fuck with you. But now...I will never stop hating you for this."

Sherlock's bright gaze grows thoughtful, and for a moment pure pity devours his blue eyes, but it is quickly banished as a weakness; a chink within his new and impenetrable armor. "Do not toy with me John...I know you only say this, to save your own skin. You have only ever cared about yourself, and your own pleasure- ignorant of my suffering!"

"Suffering?! The great Sherlock Holmes, married to his work and untouchable. How could I know that you wanted me? Not all of us are bloody crazy geniuses!"

"I want you to shut your mouth now John, and I will give you until the count of three to do so, before I shove this little toy between your lips and silence you myself!" 

"How about you shove it up your ass with everything else you've been saying!" 

"One." Sherlock barks out, and inches the ball gag closer to John's face.

"Are you going to fuck Moriarty too after this? I'm sure he'll love it!" 

"Two." The detective growls warningly, his kneecap digging painfully into the blond's shattered one now.

"Fuck!" John screams, but doesn't back down now that he has the courage to antagonize his assailant. "You can kiss the darkest part of my lily white arse!"

"Three." Sherlock's voice is a gravelly, deep growl, full of feral wickedness. He moves the ball gag towards John's lips, but the blond merely clamps them shut tightly. The detective smirks, knowing that John would try some petty tactic like this... his hands move upwards until one is wrapped half way around the doctor's throat and the other is pinching his nose shut. 

After almost a full minute, John begins to struggle weakly, his body involuntarily twitching and spasming as defense mechanisms war with his need to not give into his flatmate. A minute more, and the blond's pale skin is tingeing blue around the edges, and his wide eyes are starting to waver in and out of focus. And then, just as he is being pulled to the edge of oblivion, John Watson sucks in a shuddering breath, and Sherlock uses this opportunity to slip the plastic ball between his lips, and lifts his lolling head up so he can fasten the straps behind it.

John curses at the mad man, but because of the ball gag, it comes out as simply a string of mumbles. His head is spinning still because of the lack of oxygen and his possible concussion, as well as the immense pain John feels all over his body. He wonders briefly if he'll even remain conscious through this whole big shit storm.

"You look so complacent, and pretty like this John. Skin pale as snow, with ruby blood splashed against it and soft blue tingeing your flesh; like a little doll, delicate and demure." Sherlock trails his fingers lightly over the red, plastic ball stuffed between John's puffy lips, and smiles.

The ex-army doctor feels exhausted, but not enough to stop struggling. Though it is weak, just squirming really, the soldier in him will not let him stop.

Sherlock's hands softly caress all over John's exposed skin, reveling in the smooth and harsh plains of his body; the juxtaposition between delicate and strong that the blond has always possessed making him shiver with pleasure.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore Sherlock while at the same time trying to remain conscious. John doesn't want to stay awake, but as a doctor he knows that if he has a concussion, he shouldn't let himself fall unconscious yet.

Sherlock notices the way John's eyes begin to flutter, and so with an irritated sigh, he straightens and slaps him harshly on the other side of his face; so as not to injure the gash further. "Stay awake John, I would hate to have to fetch an adrenaline pen from the lab..."

The blond yelps in surprise when Sherlock slaps him and levels the man with a glare that's more wary than the others he's given. He is just... so tired.

"Oh John, your will full pride shall be your downfall..." Sherlock whispers, digging his fingers into the short blond strands of hair John possesses, and scrapes his fingernails a little roughly against his scalp.

In return, John snarls insults behind the gag, which the detective can't actually understand, but the intent is clear.

After a few more moments of leering over John, Sherlock burrows his nose into his soft hair and inhales the heady scent of fresh vanilla. "Oh..." He moans, his hips bucking against John out of reflex and the feeling causes him to fall forward limply, his face now nestled in the crook of the doctor's neck. The slow grind of his clothed cock against John's bare one causes the blond immense pain, because of his broken legs and he cries out beautifully around the gag in his mouth. "John..."

John tries to jerk and buck to deter the mad detective, but all it does is increase his pain. It causes his vision to white out for a moment, and when he comes back to himself, John can hear Sherlock talking. 

"I can't hold back any longer, John. I do hope you can stay conscious for this, I want to look into your beautiful blue eyes when I cum deep inside your tight little ass." Sherlock sits up straight, smirking down at the blond while he unbuttons his trousers, and pulls out his long, stiff cock; the head red, and already weeping.

John's eyes widen subconsciously and he pulls at his wrists again, this time just trying to get away from Sherlock without the use of his legs.

The detective looks down at John, expression clearly showing that he is finding the doctor to grow increasingly more stupid by the moment. "Struggle all you want, it will do you no good." Sherlock murmurs, almost chuckling because of the rehashing this has turned into. He stares at John for a few moments more, and then he moves; grabbing hold of the blond's limp and useless legs and wrenching them apart, to reveal his puckered little hole.

John cries out in pain because of the jostling of his legs, and a scream of 'please' leaves his throat before his pride can snatch it back.

Sherlock can barely make out the muffled scream of 'Please!' from around the ball gag, but he does hear it and chooses to ignore John's pathetic plead. Instead, he grabs a hold of his aching need, and quickly pumps it a few times as he stares intently at the doctor's tear streaked face. Red lips, torn and puffy around the ball gag, blue eyes bright and swimming with fresh tears; it helps bring forth the image of something far more hot, and hard shoved between John's lips, causing him to look so wonderfully wrecked, and Sherlock groans heavily at the fantasy.

Sherlock's moan makes John's stomach twist in disgust and his moment of weakness passes, the most hateful glare returning to his face in its stead.

Without preamble, or even a warning of “This might hurt”, Sherlock shoves his cock into John's ass. It only enters about halfway, before the tightness makes it impossible to thrust in further. He grabs the blond's hips in a bruising grip, and then snaps forward- feeling John's walls tear and hot blood coats his cock, making things nice and slippery. Sherlock does not give John a single moment to adjust, before he is fucking into him hard, and fast.

John tells himself that he won't scream, but with the first thrust he is, long and loud. White hot pain shoots up his spine and down his useless legs with every movement and it's just unbearable.

Sherlock's cheeks are painted in a wonderful flush, his lips red and falling open with wordless gasps, and breathy pants. There is the metallic smell of fresh blood, and sweat mixing together. Wet, squelching sounds fill the room as he continues to thrust madly into the blond's trembling and broken body. "Oh...fuck John, you feel so wonderful around me." Sherlock groans, and quickens his pace. Moments later, his breath hitches, and he stills- his hips pressed firmly into John's as he spills his thick, hot seed deep inside John's bloodied and torn hole.

John's eyes roll up into his skull as the added sting of semen in torn flesh tips him over into unconsciousness, everything finally becoming too much.

The Consulting Detective sighs, as he stares down at John's bloody, broken body laying across his sheets. The wound by his temple has scabbed over once more, as well as the torn flesh of his lips. There is a bruise blossoming across the blond's other cheek, and finger shaped bruises litter his neck and hips. Sherlock pulls out, and wipes the blood coating his softening cock upon John's pale thighs, leaving a wet slippery mess all over his lower half. Then, he stands and without looking behind him Sherlock dresses, and leaves the room. He heads downstairs and to the door, shucking on his coat, before wrenching the door open. There are things the detective must prepare, if he is to keep his little toy away from prying eyes... 

–

Well. That was quite the show. Honestly, Jim didn't expect it to work so quickly, or so completely. Sherlock really was a sick fuck when he let go, Moriarty gleefully smiles. He slips into 221b, making his way up the stairs, and over to John's body, so abused it's almost sick even to him. The strangest feeling of pity stirs inside the Consulting Criminal as he looks the blond over and makes the decision to torture Sherlock some other way than killing the good doctor, as he was intending to do. Instead, he wanders to the kitchen, fills a cup with water, and returns. Jim unbuckles the ball gag in John's mouth before dipping his fingers in the cup and flicking water droplets on his face to wake him up.

There was such a wonderful, blissful darkness that had enveloped him, before something wet and cold was dripping down onto John's face. With a jolt, though for a moment he could not recall why he should be afraid, John Watson wakes up. Panic squeezes his lungs shut and he gasps for air, expecting the difficult struggle of having to breath around a stiff, plastic sex toy shoved painfully in between his aching teeth. John is confused, and disoriented as he wakes- wondering why Sherlock is still not brutally inside him, and fucking his limp body for all it was worth.

"Easy John, easy. You'll only hurt yourself more by struggling." Moriarty puts his hand beneath the blond's head and lifts it so he can swallow some water.

John doesn't really understand what's going on- if the man before him is really Moriarty, or not. Maybe it was Sherlock, and he was hallucinating...because really, there was no difference between the two now. And then that thought buzzed his senses into alertness, and if this was Sherlock or even Moriarty- he should not ingest whatever liquid they were force feeding him; like an invalid. John takes a quick mouthful because the cup is being tilted so insistently against his lips, before he spits it out venomously at whoever this phantom man was.

Jim scoffs and steps aside as the water is spit at him, rolling his eyes for good measure. "Didn't your mother ever teach you manners? Or rather, knowing her history, how to drink at least?"

The blond begins to struggle weakly, and realizes belatedly that even though the phantom man had removed the ball gaga, he did not however remove his wrists from their iron prison, strapped to Sherlock's head board. His wrists, which had scabbed over while John was unconscious, creaked and cracked- and the scabs split, as fresh blood poured down his chaffed wrists and along his bare arms. "Who..." John's voice is weak, and cracks so easily it was pathetic to hear even in his own ears. "Who are you...? Sherlock...please, let me go-- if it's you..."

The feeling called pity tugs harshly at Jim's insides and he sighs, glancing at the hand cuffs. With a shrug, because it's not really like John can go anywhere if he does free his arms, Moriarty pulls a skeleton key out of his pocket. "I'm not Sherlock, John, but I am going to free your hands now. You're in a bad state so I need you not to panic or try to fight me, do you understand? You could seriously injure yourself if you do."

There is something calm and rational in the not Sherlock man's tone (for John still refused to fully believe that the man before him was Moriarty and that he was not still so delirious from the concussion and from the pain in his legs). It spoke to the rational, doctor inside of John and he knew the man was right. As his wrists are freed, they fall limply at the blond's sides, and the harsh prickling pain of blood being able to flow properly into his extremities, has John sucking in a harsh breath as he tries not to cry out.

"Shh...you're okay...well, not okay, but you're safe. For now." Jim pulls out his cell phone and calls Moran for a lift, all the while keeping a sharp eye on John to make sure he won't do something stupid. "And message my on-call doctor that he's needed immediately at my hospital." He adds to Moran before hanging up and trying to get the doctor to drink again.

John just looks straight ahead, gaze unfocused and glassy while he tries vaguely to pay attention to what the man (whoever he is) is saying. He only opens his mouth and takes whatever the man has to offer him, because there really is no point in fighting it...if it's a drug, then the blissful oblivion it will bring is welcomed in the face of all the pain that stabs into him. John's wrists sting. His head throbs...and his lower half aches.

A flash of worry crosses Jim's face before he frowns. He did not think Sherlock would go so far as this! This...seeing John Watson, soldier and an actually rather brilliant being, so broken...it disgusts him for some reason that he cannot fathom. "John, can you hear me?"Moriarty keeps his voice level, devoid of the concern he was feeling. Silently he hopes that John's head injury isn't as bad as it seems.

It takes a few moments for John to recognize that his name is being called, because now he is drawing in on himself to help numb the pain in his body...and in his heart. He turns, blinking rapidly before replying. "Yes...I can hear you- who ever you are..."

That causes Jim to worry even more and he gently lays his hand on John's forehead to check his temperature. John is starting to burn up already, which is extremely concerning and not good news at all. "John you need to stay awake. You're a doctor, you know what head injuries do to people. And you're most likely in shock as well. Tell me where you are. Or the day. Just keep talking."

The blond tries to flinch away from the cool hand being placed against his forehead, because the long, pale fingers remind him too much of Sherlock's. It was...baffling to hear concern in what must be Moriarty’s voice, for the man had not said otherwise that he was indeed not Moriarty. "I am...John Watson..." He croaks out, a small furrow creasing his brow. "Today is...December 3rd. I am in Sherlock's bedroom, 221b Baker street."

Jim sighs, but his worries are not completely assuaged. "List the names of your friends. Keep talking, keep yourself awake. My men will be here soon, but you need to stay conscious until then."

John winces, because really it hurts his head, his aching jaw, and his ruined throat to talk...but, he knows Moriarty is doing everything he can, so the doctor does not fall back into unconsciousness. "Mrs. Hudson." John begins slowly. "Molly...Lestrade." He lists off all the people he knows, but never once utters Sherlock's name.

"Drink some more water. Can you sit up?"

Watson shakes his head, and gasps because that was the wrong thing to do. Now his head is swimming and he is seeing bright white dots floating through his vision.

The Consulting Criminal starts to worry, but the door opens behind him and Moran walks in with one of Moriarty's beefier security men. "Be careful with him. Or I’ll have you eviscerated."

John wants to protest when a pair of overly muscled arms lift him up gingerly from Sherlock's bed and hold him bridal style against the man's broad chest. But the pain in his head is still making the room spin, and now he feels like he could vomit... so John clamps his mouth shut against the rush of saliva that preludes the emptying of his stomach's contents.

Jim grabs one of the sheets from the bed and drapes it over the blond and Muscles' arms before letting him walk first towards the stairs. On the way down Moriarty hears a gasp and he turns to see Sherlock's old lady housekeeper. "Tell Sherlock that if he can't play nicely with his toys, I have to take them away." With that he leaves the flat, not looking back as he climbs gracefully into back of the nice black car waiting on the curb.

It's a struggle for John to stay conscious. But, the feeling of cool silk against his skin, even though it makes something sick twist in his gut, grounds him enough to keep him anchored in reality. "W-Where...where are we going?" John whispers and winces because even that hurts his throbbing and bloated feeling head.

"We're going to Hospital John." Moriarty replies, without looking over his shoulder.

John hums in reply at that. He feels warm, his body beginning to feel unnaturally heavy... it's becoming very difficult for him to keep his eyes open, or even connect cohesive thoughts. Watson's eye lids begin to droop as he murmurs. "So...sleepy."

Jim glances around for something to use to keep the doctor awake, his eyes falling on a bottle of water. He quickly twists off the cap and hands the bottle to Muscles. "Keep. Him. Awake."

The blond's eyes close only briefly, a welcome darkness encroaching him, when something cool and firm and plastic is pressed to his lips. He jolts awake at that, memories of fingers closing off his air, and stuffing a ball gag between his lips all too fresh and John cries out."NO!!!" He looks around wildly before he realizes that even though his naked body is still twisted up in one of Sherlock's silk sheets, he is no longer held captive in 221 Baker Street.

"John, it's okay, you're safe." Jim murmurs, reaching back to direct the doctor's face towards his own. "Sherlock won't touch you again." 

John flinches, just the sound of Sherlock's name wrenching something deep, and painful in his chest. He doesn't understand why Moriarty is acting so protective and concerned, and wants nothing more than to ask him, but the car has suddenly stopped and now John is being jostled out of it. The bright sunlight pricking into his eyes, of a pearly dawn makes the doctor's head throb so terribly, that this is what undoes his resolve not to puke. He leans over the man, and with a violent shudder, spews forth what little contents his stomach has left to offer.

"Hurry, let's get inside. Moran get the doctor."

Everything moves by in a blur of noise and activity, and vaguely John is aware of being pressed into a firm white mattress upon a gurney. He is finding it increasingly difficult to understand the questions being hurled at Moriarty and himself, as he is swept off in a tide of confusion and fear.

"Broken legs, head injury, wrist contusions, and raped." Jim lists off to the doctor as they walk. He nods dutifully before giving orders to his underlings. He points Moriarty, Moran, and Muscles to a waiting room before disappearing with John into a surgery room.

There is so much noise, and light. John scrunches his eyes shut, and tries to will away the dull throbbing ache of his head, and now painfully empty stomach. Orders are barked around, but he cannot focus on the words. A mask is slipped over the doctor's face, and before he can protest- darkness drags John Watson into its sweet embrace once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 will be up as soon as we can work on it, and probably won't happen as fast as this one. We endeavor to push out at least one a week, so until then have a wonderful day!


	3. A regular decorated emergency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets to meet Jim, and finds out some new things about the Consulting Criminal and gets to talk to Mycroft.

The Thinning Line 

Chapter Three: A regular decorated emergency

James Moriarty waits for two days before the doctor allows him to sit in John's room while he is unconscious. He sits in a lumpy, mint colored chair and looks at the blond, still so bruised and broken even after being cleaned and wrapped in bandages. Jim frowns as he remembers only 24 hours previous, when John Watson was still strong even after being kidnapped by the Consulting Criminal. How could Sherlock do this? Moriarty knew the detective desired the good doctor, but how could he rape and break John like this?

Slowly, light filters through John's heavy eyelids, and he flutters them open blearily. He wants to stretch, and yawn and take in the bright new day, because he had slept better than he has in weeks. Confusion furrows the blond's brows, when he takes in the white ceiling above him, and the mechanical beeping and whooshing of machines. There is a tight, pinching feeling in his right arm, and John lolls his head to the side, and finds an IV shoved into one of his veins, in the crook of his elbow.

"It's about time." Moriarty drawls from the other side of the bed.

John stiffens, the sound of Moriarty's voice sending chills down his spine as for a moment, he forgets all that had transpired and how the Consulting Criminal was his savior from possible death. "M...Moriarty?" The blond whispers, voice hoarse, but no where near the cracked mess it was when they first met in Sherlock's flat.

"Yup! In the flesh! And you, John Watson, are lucky to be alive from what the doc tells me." Jim smiles good naturedly, winking for added effect. 

John grimaces, always hating the bright sing song enthusiasm the insane Irishman held towards everything...even the mention of death did not deter him from cheerful goading. "And I...I take it you want me to thank you?" He asks warily, because how could simple John Watson judge the fickle moods of the one psychopath he believed Sherlock Holmes could always outwit?

"Only if you want. Is the morphine working well enough?"

The doctor in question swallows back all the harsh words prepared on the tip of his tongue, if Moriarty was to ask him as haughty as Sherlock Holmes to thank him for doing something he really didn't have to. John eyes Jim warily now, confused and without the energy to puzzle him out. Nodding, he manages to rasp out, "Yes...I feel only a dull twinge here and there, as to be expected."

"Good." Jim remarks with a grin. "You'll stay here for a week or two and then you'll be moving into my safe house."

John looks away, throat clenching around the words he wants so desperately to say, but not with the courage to say them. But...he needs to know the answer to his biggest question, so the ex-army doctor steels his resolve, and whispers heavily. "And Sherlock...?"

"What about him?" Moriarty asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Has he...realized I'm not home? I...I know you keep tabs on everyone and everything, just like Mycroft." The blond whispers softly, and closes his eyes slowly.

"He realized you were gone two days ago. You've been asleep for quite some time. He was hilariously upset when he saw you gone. Like a child throwing a tantrum."

John wants to smile at the thought, because once upon a time it would have brought laughter to his lips when Sherlock threw a fit. But he cannot smile...he cannot feel anything but emptiness, and apathy.

"Don't worry John...someday you'll be able to smile again." Jim remarks in a soft tone before standing. "In the meantime you should sleep. As a doctor I'm sure you recognize the merits of rest."

The good doctor looks up to the criminal, his mouth falling open in shock. "Why...why are you doing all of this?" He gestures vaguely at everything around him.

"Because it will drive Sherlock crazy." Moriarty says bluntly before glancing away from John. "And because not even I am that sadistic." That last bit is whispered, like a silent confession Watson was not supposed to hear. 

John nods at that, not really accepting that answer, but not wanting to say anything more on the subject. Before Moriarty leaves he murmurs, "Thank you...for saving me from Him."

Jim freezes in the doorway, glancing back at the blond. The word 'save' rolls around in his head and he can't help but smile. "You're welcome Doctor Watson." Moriarty replies, before walking away. He has a Holmes brother to contact.

As the door clicks shut, John presses his head wearily back into the soft down pillows. He stares idly up at the ceiling for minutes...hours... he wasn't really sure. The only way he could really understand the passage of time, was that by now the morphine was wearing off, and pain began to stab into him once more. So, John seeks out the morphine button and clicks it twice and moments later, a numb weightlessness fills him. He closes his eyes, trying not to feel relief at being in the possession of a well known deranged psychopath, but he does. And then, unexpectedly, sleep claims him. 

–

Meanwhile James Moriarty takes up residence in an empty doctors office and dials the number he memorized long ago. It rings twice before being picked up. Before the man can speak, Jim trills out a greeting. "Sherlock! How good of you to accept my call!"

"WHERE IS HE?!" Sherlock growls into the speaker, pacing frantically along the empty London streets, a cigarette hanging limply between his lips.

"Who? Oh, Johnny Boy! Would it make you angry if I said he was dead? Would it make you more angry if I said he was tucked safely in my bed?"

"You will bring him back to me this instant, or so help me all of Scotland Yard will be tracking you down, and dragging him back to my side!!"

"And do you really think good DI Lestrade will really give him back to the psychopath that raped and beat him? Make no mistake Sherlock, I have it all on tape, as does your elder brother I'm guessing."

The other end is silent for a moment before Sherlock snaps, "If you touch one hair on his head, trust me I will track you down, and I will take a personal pleasure in killing you slowly."

"I'm sure you would, what with your new demeanor. I didn't think you had it in you Sherlock, but you really did a number on poor John. Do you want to know how long he was in surgery? Nearly four hours. Doc still isn't sure if he'll recover enough to walk. And he gets daily head scans to check for brain swelling. It really is a pity. He doesn't deserve such pain. Then again, there are few who do."

Sherlock growls menacingly. "I will find him, and I will bring him back! He is MINE, and I will do with him what I will." And then, he slams the phone shut, silencing the other end.

Jim whistles to himself and hangs up as well. With a smirk, he thinks about how much fun he can have now. And James Moriarty makes a promise that Sherlock Holmes will never get his hands on John again. Even if he has to kill the good doctor, to keep him safe. 

–

The two weeks it takes for the doctor to clear John are tediously boring. Sure, Moriarty is having a blast taunting both Sherlock and his older brother, but he finds that he is becoming more and more interested in one John H. Watson. He never goes in and interacts with the healing doctor, but Jim watches him interact with others. John is so withdrawn and somber these days. He lacks the bravado the blond used to have. 

Though, he maintains his quiet strength. But for some reason, that's not enough for Jim. The Consulting Criminal wants John to be like he was before, feisty and completely ready to take on an insane psychopath even while strapped to a bomb. He wants John Watson to be himself, and it confuses him as to why.

Today John is sitting out in the sun, in a wheelchair, and staring at the wind swaying through the trees and the beautiful orange flowers surrounding the tiny garden he found himself in. A quiet melancholy has overtaken him in the face of silence, that leaves John to his dark thoughts and memories.

Moriarty watches from a short distance away, before sighing and approaching the blond. John doesn't even look at him as he comes to stand by the broken man. "John."

Belatedly, John looks up at Moriarty- finally over the novelty of seeing his face at least once a day, even if they never speak. "Hello..." The blond murmurs softly. "Can I help you?" 

Jim snorts softly at that. "How could you help me John?"

Watson smiles wryly, a tiny self depreciating thing. "You're right...what can I do to help anyone any more?" Looking away, to hide the darkness chasing through his haunted gaze, John lets out a soft sigh.

The Consulting Criminal feels a pang of pity and maybe a little guilt as he sighs as well. "You're still a doctor John. Once your legs heal, you'll be back to patching people up in no time. I intend to make sure of it."

John scoffs, trying his hardest to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Yes, my legs may heal...but I- my heart never will. I will always hold a certain hatred for everyone, and everything now. I am blackened, tainted by the dark pitch of insanity."

"Oh how pathetically poetic." Moriarty sighs, placing a hand over his heart. "You will get over what happened, and once you do, you'll realize that all this moping and 'what if-ing' is all just a waste of time!"

The blond turns a cold glare up at the Irishman then. All of the dark thoughts, and whisperings of his mind over these past couple weeks finally coalesce and he snaps. "You have no right to patronize me Moriarty! If it wasn't for you, none of this would have ever happened!!!" His chest heaves, and he tries to hold back the tears that threaten to fall.

Jim quirks an eyebrow, surprised that Watson is actually standing up to him. "All I did was plant the seed Johnny Boy. I didn't make Sherlock break your legs, stuff a sex toy in your mouth, and rape you ruthlessly."

John shivers, Moriarty's candid retelling of events making his skin crawl. "Please...just, let me be." He whimpers, wanting to curl up in a corner and cry his heart out... but he can't, not with mending legs that can't move for not even his doctor knew how long.

But Jim remains there, looking down at the blond with the most indecipherable look on his face. "You need to accept it John. Sherlock was never what you thought he was. I knew that, all along, and I did try to warn you. Before he showed up at the pool, I'm sure you remember. You had such blind faith in him. And look what that faith has brought you."

The tears can't stay behind the flood gates anymore, and they fall hot and shamefully down John's cheeks. "Please..." He begs, and looks up at the man who had saved his life, so much pain and sadness in his blue eyes. "I...love him, so please- stop saying such things."

Moriarty crouches in front of John so they were at eye level, and he makes sure his blue eyes have met his own amber one's before speaking. "He never loved you back. He lusted for you, he wanted to take you. But he never loved you. And he never will. He does not deserve any kind of pardon or thought from you."

The doctor chokes, his throat closing tightly because of his tears. "I KNOW! I know all of this and yet...I still want to save him. I want to bring back the Sherlock who lit up the world with his brilliance...who lit up my world with a mere smile."

Reaching out, Jim grabs the blond's chin in his hand. "He cannot come back John. He's given in to his darker nature, and I can assure you that he likes it. If it will prove it to you, I’ll even let you call him. Would you like that John?"

Watson stares at Moriarty, eyes a little wide and trying to understand him. "But...you, I always thought you were heartless, and cold...and here you are, comforting me. If you can change, why can't he? Why is it so impossible to bring him back? I know if someone just...makes him see reason..."

The Consulting Criminal rolls his eyes, straightening to his full height, and reaches into his pocket for his phone. He tosses the phone onto Watson's lap. "I am not comforting you. I am protecting my investment." Jim walks away, but not before throwing over his shoulder, "He's in there as the virgin. Though I guess I’ll have to find a new nickname for him, won't I?"

John stares dumbly at the phone, but at that last comment he whips his head up so fast, it leaves a dizziness in his skull for a moment. That one stung, and disgust roils in his stomach; skin growing cold and clammy. A phantom pain shoots from his backside and up John's spine and suddenly he's lurching forward, and puking out the sparse contents of his stomach.

Moriarty glances back at the blond as he hears the sound of him retching, but doesn't return, only continues walking.

The acrid taste of stomach acid burns his throat, and John shudders involuntarily as a cold chill spreads across his skin. After a few minutes, he collects himself, and stares numbly at the pool of vomit at his feet. Wrinkling his nose at the smell, the blond turns away and starts to wheel his way over to another part of the garden. When he is situated in a quiet spot, he finally notices the phone still in his lap. Picking it up, John wavers between indecision and fear. 

He opens the slim, black phone and stares at the contacts numbly. John knew that speaking to Sherlock would not be wise today, not when the mere thought of it caused him to vomit. But...perhaps someone close to him...someone he knew was still keeping tabs on the detective. So, John presses call for “The Fruit Cake”. 

–

Mycroft glances down at his phone as it starts ringing. The number is 'unknown'. Which is just astounding because he literally had every phone number in London in this phone. Hesitantly he accepts the call, bringing the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Mycroft?" John asks hesitantly, hoping that this was the right number.

Every thought in his mind freezes and Mycroft Holmes blinks dumbly for a few moments. "John?"

The doctor smiles, relieved this it is actually the right number. "Yes...how are you?" He asks, his well-mannered upbringing rearing its lovely head even now. 

"...John, where are you? Tell me and I’ll send my men to come get you."

"I...can't tell you where I am, not even I know where I am." John chuckles, feeling absurd for saying such. "But...even if I could tell you, I would not want your men to get me. Just know that I am safe, and well looked after."

"John, Moriarty is hardly safe in my book! What can you see around you? Anything will help identify your surroundings. Colors, the type of building materials, sounds, anything!"

Watson smiles wryly, before he realizes that Mycroft can't see his expression. "Please Mycroft...just let it go for now. I just...want to know if you have seen Sherlock lately?" His tone is matter of fact, flat and level as he tries to keep the tremble out of his voice.

Mycroft is stunned into silence for a good minute, shocked that John would inquire after the man who hurt him so much. "He...disappeared from my radar a few days ago. The last time I saw him, he was carving up one of Moriarty's men for information."

John shudders, his skin beginning to crawl at the information the eldest Holmes brother has given him. "I see..." He whispers fearfully. "He really is beyond our reach...isn't he?"

"….Unfortunately I believe he is. I always knew he walked a fine line between harmless sociopath and violent psychopath. In the past, Sherlock turned to drugs and solving crimes for a fix. It appears causing crimes has become his new fix...as well as finding you."

The blond's jaw clenches painfully. "Thank you Mycroft...I appreciate you sharing this information with me."

"John tell me where you are. I can keep you safe, from both of them. Please."

John smiles, feeling a vague sense of warmth that Mycroft still cares so much for him, even when Sherlock has made it apparent that he is a mere possession. "I hope if anyone can stop him Mycroft, it's you. Be safe, you'll be playing with fire and doused in gasoline now." He snaps the phone shut before Mycroft can ask him once more to reveal his position. 

–

Moriarty watches John snap the phone shut from a good distance away, his face neutral. Of course he knew Watson wouldn't call Sherlock. Mycroft was one of his guesses as to who the blond would call, though. But Jim is actually surprised that he didn't tell Mycroft something about his location, or even something to help him find John. It's curious, and he wonders why the good doctor would rather stay here with him, than go to Mycroft. 

But Moriarty doesn't approach John again. Instead he nods to Moran who approaches the blond, takes the phone, and starts to wheel him inside.

John slumps forward as he is wheeled away, inwardly hating how weak and degrading it makes him feel to have no freedom to move himself. He feels drained after the conversation, and wants nothing more than to curl up alone in his hospital bed and stare blankly at the ceiling...or maybe, he could sneak a few extra pain pills and slip into a numb oblivion.

Moriarty continues to watch from a discreet distance, until John has fallen asleep, and then retrieves his phone from Moran. Going to the empty office again, Jim sits and props his feet up on the desk before calling Sherlock again. He thinks the naughty little detective needs to know that Johnny Boy wants to talk to him.


	4. To fly, some where beyond the pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes some threats, and Jim toys around with him like a fish on a lure; and possibly gains a friend in one, John H. Watson.

The Thinning Line 

Chapter Four: To fly away, some where beyond the pain 

Sherlock's phone is buzzing in his breast pocket, and so he drags himself as best as he can from his drug induced stupor. Heroin is still vaguely coursing through his veins, and it has left the former sociopath feeling a bit jumpy. Frowning when he see's the number lit up on his lcd screen, Sherlock snaps his phone open, growling out. "If you have called for any other reason, than to return my John to me, than you better pray to whatever Gods may exist that I do not find you, and carve your skin straight from your bones– and then the muscle, and all the nice little veins... until everything is splayed out like a road map on the pavement!"

"You're so pleasant when you're high. Really, you're lovely."

"Cut the shit, Moriarty! I am done playing games, WHERE IS HE?!" Sherlock shouts, voice deep and feral and full of hatred.

"Interesting thing, I gave him the option of calling you today. Instead he contacted your dear brother. How does that make you feel Sherlock?"

A deep, burning hatred wells up inside the detective because of Moriarty's confession, though he's more inclined to believe that the Consulting Criminal is merely inventing this, to try and goad him into anger. "Please Moriarty, these mindless games are beneath us, and you know it. You did not let John contact Mycroft, otherwise he would be safe in his keeping, and my prat of a brother would be lording it over my head."

"Call him then, if you're so sure. And he'll tell you about how he asked John three times for his location, for anything that could be used to locate him, and John said no every time."

Sherlock's anger finally boils over and he stands, sweeping his hand over the things located on top of John's night stand, for the once Consulting Detective had taken up residence in his room. "When I find you, I am going to kill you- and I promise you this, it will be slow and painful. You will beg every moment for death, and I will draw it out- keep you alive in any possible way that I can until your body finally gives out. And I will make John watch, if he has truly chosen YOU over ME."

"Oh Sherlock...he doesn't want me either. To be honest, I rather think he would choose death over either of us. But I can promise you that if you do ever find Johnny Boy and me, that you won't get to touch him once. I’ll slit his pretty throat before I let that happen."

"Then trust me, if that time ever does come, I won't let you lay a single finger upon his head. He is MINE!" Sherlock growls out possessively. "And no one touches my toys, but me."

"When little boys break their toys, daddy has to take them away. And you've been so very bad with your toy. Don't expect it back anytime soon." James Moriarty trilled on the other end, sounding so very proud, and content with himself- it made Sherlock want to bash his head repeatedly against a wall, until all his brain matter spilled from his skull...

Snarling, Sherlock shoots the most murderous glare he can muster into the receiver. "I will give you One day, and if John isn't in my possession, I will hunt you down. Perhaps if you give me him, I can let you leave only slightly mutilated."

Jim laughs, because really this is all so fun! "You can try Sherlock. You've been having so much luck up to this point."

The former detective growls one final time, and as frustration overtakes him, he tosses his phone against the wall.

Moriarty giggles almost maniacally, and gets up to find the best safe house to move John to. Can never be too careful, after all. After confirming the new safe house, he walks to the blond's room and sits next to his bed; watching him sleep so deeply. Jim knows that the good doctor must be on more drugs than usual, because he is not squirming through a nightmare. For some reason, the Irishman is glad. 

He's so glad that John's not suffering, even if it's for a few short hours, and he can't bring himself to wake the blond. Instead Jim sits back and just watches John, wondering what it is exactly about the unassuming ex-army doctor, that makes him doubt himself so much.

The darkness quickly begins to sift away, like sand falling through an hourglass, and John Watson opens his eyes; feeling groggy and not entirely there. He realizes distantly, that it is still the effects of the pain meds that have dulled his thoughts and senses. John stares up at the ceiling, mind wonderfully empty for the first time in weeks.

Moriarty watches Watson slowly wake up, a small smile crossing his lips at the blond's hazy expression. He looks so young, yet still so tired. In that moment, the criminal just wants to cuddle the doctor for some reason that he cannot fathom.

Turning slowly, to find his bottle of pills, John see's Moriarty sitting in a lounge chair across from his bed- staring at him with a tiny smile. It makes the blond's skin crawl, and he flushes in disgust from the memory of waking up naked, cuffed to a head board, and unceremoniously fucked until he bled. John shakes his head a little, trying to rid it of those sorts of thoughts before he murmurs a tentative, "Can I help you with something?"

Of course Jim notices the shudder, and a frown of concern falls over his face. It's obvious what's bothering John, because really what else could it be? And he finds that he wants to comfort the doctor, despite what he had said earlier that day. "Yes, you can. I want you to talk to me."

John blinks owlishly for a few moments, because it's still a little hard to focus on reality with any cohesiveness. "I...don't really have anything to say...unless, perhaps you can get me some stronger medication? Maybe sleeping pills...I’ve been having a hard time getting to sleep." He lies, but looks up at Moriarty innocently enough. Watson doesn't really need them to help sleep at night, he just needs them to help him sleep whenever he doesn't want to think about things...or for when he finally decides that perhaps, he'll never want to wake up.

Jim quirks an eyebrow, wondering if John really thought he would fall for that.

The blond takes in the Irishman's expression, but unlike Sherlock he can't even begin to read Moriarty. "Please..." John mumbles, thinking that the Consulting Criminal merely wants supplication, and begging before he gives him what he wants.

Moriarty's face twists into a look of disgust and he stands quickly. "Don't you ever beg me for anything!" He unexpectedly shouts, "And no, I won't give you sleeping pills to use at your discretion, or to kill yourself with! I will not let you hurt yourself, not now, not ever!"

John's mouth falls open, because honestly it was the last reaction that he could ever expect from the great psychopath Moriarty...to be shown such kindness, and compassion from a man who had no heart...when the man who had stolen his; used him, hurt him and was perfectly content in letting John stay his prisoner and toy until his body gave out. He shivers, and looks away shamefully...hating the way Moriarty's dark eyes bore little holes into the fine armor Watson was trying to create, to protect himself from the pain. "Why do you care...?" He asks hollowly, not meeting the other man's gaze, and fidgets with a loose thread on the blanket (though John doesn't remember falling asleep with one) strewn over his lap.

Huffing out a few angry breaths, before cursing under his breath Jim mumbles very quietly, "I don't know..." His expression is troubled; forehead furrowed, eyebrows drawn together into a singular line, and a frown deeply carving his lips into a bitter mask. 

Moriarty's reaction almost makes John smile, but a sickening realization hits him and he grimaces instead. "You sound like Sherlock..." The blond murmurs, and looks off into the distance; gaze glossy and far away.

This time Jim storms over to Watson and grabs his jaw roughly in his hand, leaning down to snarl in the doctor's face, "Fucking say that again, Watson, I dare you!"

John flinches, and cries out- fear blowing his pupils wide, and making his nostrils flare as he tries to suck in quick breaths through his nose. "I-I'm sorry! Please...don't hurt me, I won't say it again, I promise!" He doesn't care that he sounds like a frightened child, who had woken up from a bad dream and was asking for forgiveness for wetting the bed. 

Moriarty stares at the doctor for a few moments, all the rage instantly evaporating in the face of John Watson's blatant and crushing fear. He releases the older man's face, horrified with himself, and takes a few numb steps back from the bed. "I...I'm sorry..."

Placing a hand on his sore jaw, John gingerly rubs out the ache- the kind he remembers all too well. Though the Consulting Criminal was quick to instill fear in him, he was even quicker to assuage it, and that confuses John. "No...I'm sorry?" His apology is almost a question, because this whole situation has the blond feeling lost, and reeling in the dark.

Unable to think of anything to say, or look at John when his eyes are still so wide with fear, Moriarty turns towards the door and starts walking away. "We're leaving. Moran will come help you into your chair." He tosses over his shoulder. 

"W-What? Where are we going?" John sputters out, because he's still a little afraid, and now even more confused.

Stopping in the doorway, Jim is still facing away from John unable to look at him; but he does reply softly. "Somewhere I know you'll be safe. The Holmes brothers need nothing but a thirty second phone call to figure out where someone is- so I'm surprised they haven't located us yet... I can only imagine this place will be swarming with British government men by morning." Moriarty clenches his fists, and turns to the older man- an indecipherable look on his pale, pointed face. "Unless you'd like to stay. Go with Mycroft and away from me."

John swallows thickly, and shakes his head- eyes widening even further in fear at the prospect of Sherlock finding him. "No!" He cries out suddenly, "Please don't let him find me Moriarty! I will do anything you ask of me, just please..."

It makes the psycopath's stomach turn unpleasantly from the panic and fear in the once proud doctor's voice, and he forces the urge to run to John and cradle him in his arms to go away before he does something stupid. "He'll never find you John. He'll never touch you again." Moriarty hesitates, before giving Watson a small smile. "And call me Jim."

Watson shivers once more, and without really thinking about it, he reaches his arms out to Moriarty. "I know Moran helps me into my wheelchair, but I'm about to have a panic attack if I stay here any longer..." He looks down shyly before continuing, "If you don't mind, could you please help me into the chair...Jim?"

Jim's small smile unconsciously grows to cover his whole face and he nods, rushing forward to let John wrap his arms around his neck. Moriarty slips his arms beneath the blonds thighs and lifts him, easily walking the few feet to his wheelchair.

Even though he had asked to be lifted to his chair, for the briefest of moments John tenses when Jim's arms touch his thighs. Muscles and Moran never bothered him, but Jim- Jim is or maybe WAS too much like the new Sherlock- and it was some what frightening. John was not given long to dwell on it though, before the younger of the two is placing him gingerly in his chair, and that's when the blond notices the wonderful smile lighting up a face he believed could only ever show cold indifference, and manic glee over something wicked.

"Are you okay John?" Jim asks when he sees John's face full of conflicting emotions.

Looking up and nodding, not really sure what else he can say or do. John is still rather confused, in fact even MORE confused, because everything he thought he knew, has been turned upside down and inside out in the last two and half walks.

Moriarty kneels in front of the blond, and meets his stormy blue eyes with concern. "John?"

He looks into Jim's eyes, dark pools that he once believed were soulless and devoid of emotion, but now John sees the rare glimmer of light that shines through them, rippling into a river of molten amber. John opens his mouth, and then closes it- not really sure how to voice such thoughts without hurting what tentative friendship they had created. "It's nothing Jim...for now, can we focus on leaving? Perhaps...I'll tell you later, when we are far from Sherlock Holmes." 

Jim hesitates for a moment, but nods in the end. "Alright." He starts wheeling the doctor out of the room, but still feels worried.

Looking up, John notices the slightly pinched furrow between Jim's brow, and he wonders what emotion could have caused such a pained expression to mar the brunette's impassive face. He decides then, that maybe it was something he had said and that he should try to assuage Moriarty's doubts or fears the same way he has done for him. "Jim..." John murmurs, the name still feeling foreign and heave on his tongue. "I just want you to know, that I no longer think you are heartless- and well, it was terrifies me. Because everything has changed, and I don't know what to do..."

His eyebrows raise in surprise and his lips quirk into the softest of smiles. "You don't have to be afraid John. When we get to the new house, we'll sit and have some tea and talk about it, okay?"

John returns the soft smile, and nods. "Yes...that sounds like a wonderful idea."

Moriarty wheels the blond to the car and helps him into the backseat before climbing in next to him.

"I am starting to grow rather sleepy, the pain meds still in my system." John looks over to the brunette and asks a little shyly. "Do you mind if I sleep? You can wake me when we get to wherever you're taking me...I'm just...tired."

The Irishman smiles and puts his arms around the blond so he can lay his head on his shoulder. "Sleep as long as you want." Jim murmurs softly, and turns to look out the tinted windows at the blurred landscape of London. 

John tries not to stiffen immediately at the way Moriarty's arm twines around him, but he can't help it and he knows that it probably upsets the Consulting Criminal when all he is being is friendly. He quickly relaxes though, and leans into Jim's side, and rests his head upon the man's surprisingly broad shoulder. "Thank you." The blond whispers, before closing his eyes and breathing deep the scent of Jim's cologne- it's musky and woody all at once, with a splash of something that almost smelled like smoke and chocolate.

Moriarty loosens his grip on John's shoulder when he sees how uncomfortable he is, but smiles when the doctor burrows into his side.

John's breathing evens out after a while, and the warm, intoxicating scent and feeling of the brunette lulls his into a peaceful sleep.

Jim can't resist taking a picture of the blond fast asleep on his shoulder, which he immediately sends to Sherlock's back up phone, since he trashed his other one. Then he sits back and just enjoys the warm feeling in his chest as they drove and John Watson sleeps peacefully next to him. 

–

 

Sherlock Holmes was busy prowling through the back streets of London, deep in the seedy underbelly of this magnificent city, when his back up phone vibrates quick and succinct- a text message, he gathers. He pulls out his phone, and snarls when he sees that fucking number mocking him once more, and barely resists tossing this cell against the nearest wall as well. With a grimace, Sherlock flips open the phone, and finds a picture message waiting for him- and its contents make his skin burn, and his stomach roil. John, his sweet, beautiful toy fast asleep and lying like a child against the man he hates most in the world. "FUCK!" 

The psychotic consulting detective shouts, and sends his fist slamming into the nearest wall, splitting the skin of his knuckles. "Fine...if that's the way they want to play it, so be it..." He mutters darkly to himself, and takes off. There were some men Sherlock needed to contact, and the sooner he hired them, the better. 

–

Moriarty makes sure that John stays asleep as he carries him into the new safe house, walking carefully up the stairs to the doctor's new room. After laying him down and making his head is at a good, comfortable angle, Jim leaves the blond to rest and joins Moran in the kitchen. "So, tell me the local gossip." He leans against the island counter top, and smirks all the while. 

Moran looks down at the slight form before him, and even though he could possibly break his employer in two, the muscled ex-soldier was far more leery of him then he could ever be of Sebastian. He clears his throat, banishing those thoughts for another time before he replies, "Not much, though one of our men found Rogers in a back alleyway this morning. Poor bloke's head was chopped clean off, and his neck was shoved up his arse....we're pretty sure it was Sherlock's doin', tryin' to send you a message."

"Hmm he's so creative. We'll have to repay the growing debt he's collecting. Where are his parents these days?"

"Last I 'eard they were vacationing in Ibiza." Moran shrugs, and levels Jim with his most unimpressed stare. "But we both know getting to the prat's parents would be easier said than done, what with Mycroft always buzzing about..."

"Oh I don't need to get them. But imagine how sad it would make mommy dearest to know what her little baby boy has been up to." Jim grins devilishly before standing up straight. "Get me the number and keep an ear out for anything having to do with Sherlock Holmes."

Sebastian hums noncommittally, but they both knew that means that he will be following Jim's orders, as soon as he walks away. "You gonna go check on the pretty lil' prisoner Jim?" The tall blond asks, tone holding a slight teasing edge to it, his flinty blue eyes glittering a tad too mischievously.

The brunette rolls his eyes dramatically. "You're the only person I’ll let get away with teasing me, but I still don't like it. As a matter of fact, I was going to go kill some assassins who dislike me, and could be persuaded to kill me by a certain Holmes brother. John is sleeping any ways." Moriarty almost adds as an after thought.

Moran's lips quirk up, because despite all the harsh and biting words, always spoken in a sing-song accent, he knows Jim would never kill him. The ex-soldier was the closest thing the criminal has ever had to a friend, and too valuable to dispose of. "Still..." Seb tries to hide how his smile is widening. "Wouldn't it be grand, if pretty lil' Watson chose you over Holmes, when the time comes? Think about it Jim, how it would destroy that arrogant son of a bitch."

Moriarty hesitates, and glances over his shoulder at his subordinate- a dark look chasing through his bright amber eyes. "It'll never happen. He'd probably choose you over me, if ever that time came." He frowns at his own words, looking angry, yet some how a little forlorn all the same. "But even you would be better than Sherlock."

Seb shrugs, his blue eyes glittering with a certain kind of knowing. "I dunno, Jim- I’ve seen the way the lad clings to ya' when he's scared. Hell, I've touched him more times than you, an' he treats it like some disdainful chore... but he practically begs for ya' ta hold him when the nightmares get too real for 'im. I'd wager some good quid, that he'd choose you over Sherlock these days."

A little feeling of hope blooms in Jim's chest, but he quickly stamps it out as the weakness that it is; he always killed the weak- since he believed that only the strong would inherit the earth. "Once Sherlock is dead, John will leave and go back to his life and meet someone good for him." He tries to shrug nonchalantly, only vaguely believing it was convincing. "I may be better than Sherlock, but I'm not good enough for John."

Shrugging again, Moran just chooses to stay silent at that, until Jim's words really sink in. His thick eyebrows furrow, and he gives his employer a puzzled look. "Don't tell me... ya actually want the lil' doctor to...stay with you? You...ye like Mr. Watson don't ya?"

Jim's face immediately hardens and he snarls at the blond. "If I did, it would be none of your business! You shoot people, I tell you who to shoot, that's the extent of our relationship. And it does not include relationship advise!"

A smile widens along Moran's lips, a little thing equal parts taunting and wicked. "Okay Jim, no need ta get DEFENSIVE..." He chuckles lightly, ignoring the way the small Irishman is glaring, and spitting and snarling like a cat being forced to take a bath. "I was just tryin' ta puzzle you out. Ye can fuck the lad silly, or date 'im, or just off 'im for all I care." Shrugging, as was Sebastian's favorite way to dismiss situations he finishes, "Just don't go fallin' too deep Jimmy, we don't need ya acquiring any soft, little weak spots for Mad Sherlock Homes to exploit."

Moriarty remains angry and fuming for a few moments, before realizing that John would not only be his weak spot, but Sherlock's as well. What was it about the unassuming army doctor that drew mad geniuses in, he wondered? But Seb is still looking at him with a remarkably annoying look on his face so Jim manages to sneer at the blond again. "You think I would ever let myself develop a weakness? Just who the fuck do you think I am?"

Moran laughed then, long and hard with tears gathering at the edges of his eyes. "Aye, well let's just go hopin' you don't get too addle headed over some cute, blond lil thing Jim." He shakes his head, and turns away. "And before you get yer knickers all in a twist, I only tease ya cuz it's a great way to pass the time in this boring hell hole...now, shouldn't I be gatherin' some intelligence, boss?" Sebastian Moran had the gall to quirk a condescending eyebrow at his psychotic employer, who would stab a knife straight through your heart sooner than you could say, "Bob's your Uncle."

Growling in his throat, Jim Moriarty debates the merits of breaking Moran's legs, but then turns and storms out of the room- trying to shut out the light chuckling that nipped at his heels in the wake of his cowardly retreat.


	5. Of Monsters and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jim get some things straightened out over tea, and Sebastian reveals a surprising connectionto the good Doctor. Oh, and Sherlock gets to hear John's voice again...

The Thinning Line 

Chapter Five: Of Monsters and Men 

For the first time in weeks, when John Watson awakes in the middle of the night, it is not to panicked half remembering's of haunting dreams. He wakes slowly, as if being pulled from a pit of quicksand, and he feels safe, and well rested. John sits up, and stretches languidly, letting his back pop into place as he stifles a heavy yawn. He knew that he was to wake in a new place, and without the comfort of Moria- Jim, at his side, but it still sends a vague stabbing sense of loss through him, that the doctor chooses not to dwell upon. Instead, John starts taking in his surroundings. 

He finds himself upon a comfortable four poster bed, with a thick butter cream colored duvet tossed over him. The room was rather large and opulent, and the blond feels a little uncomfortable from all the care and detail put into a place to keep him safe.

Meanwhile, James Moriarty gets a text from his security man when he sees the good doctor waking up, from the camera placed so sneakily in his room– so the brunette diverts his direction from aimlessly wandering, to getting the blond some tea.

John finally stops observing the luxurious room, and instead turns his attention to the (mysterious) sleep clothes that he was wearing. He flushes hotly at the thought that SOMEONE had dressed him while he was asleep...probably Moran, since Jim's right hand man was the one who always took care of the doctor. John sits in silence for a while, not really thinking about anything, when a soft knock at the door breaks him from his quiet meanderings. Jim cracks open the door, a tea tray held between his other hand and his hip. "Thirsty?" He asks, always with that lilting Irish accent that shouldn't be so pleasing to listen to... it was like hearing a snake charmer play his shrill little flute; and while in the end you were still faced with the cold, flat eyes of a king cobra, the musical sound helped soothe the fear the snake instilled. 

The older man in question looks over, and even though it still should not surprise him, he finds Jim Moriarty in his doorway- a tiny smile on his thin lips, as he offers John tea. "Yes, actually...and a little peckish. I don't suppose tea could include biscuits?" John cocks his head to the side, and smiles; and it all feels so surreal, he almost wants to laugh.

Picking up the plate of biscuits from the tray, Moriarty shows them to the blond. "Like these?" He raises an eyebrow in amusement, and quirks his lips into the most attractive lopsided grin John Watson had ever witnessed. 

His eyes light up at the sight, and for the first time in almost three weeks, John truly smiles. "You are a god-send, Jim!" The older man exclaims, and ushers the brunette forward with an excited wave of his hand. Jim's heart skips a few beats and he hesitates for only a moment. He foolishly wishes then, that he could see, and cause, that smile more often... maybe even wishes he could for forever.

When he sees Moriarty's hesitant expression, the blond sighs fondly. "Oh come on Jim, don't dally in the doorway like a stranger!" John exclaims, and pats the spot beside him upon the bed- his smile widening, and creasing the beautiful laughter lines that trace delicate patterns across his face like a well used tube map. 

The Consulting Criminal gladly takes the offered seat, and starts pouring out the tea while the doctor snatches a biscuit up like a greedy little kid trying to grab the last cookie in the jar. "How did you sleep?" Moriarty asks, keeping his tone as bland as possible; after all, he didn't want to sound too concerned now did he? He did have a reputation to uphold, and all that nonsense. 

John stuffs the buttery biscuit in his mouth, and chews avidly, smiling around the crumbs that still stick to the corners of his lips. "Oh, I slept sounder than a rock." He replies, not even mindful for once of how rude it was to talk with his mouth full.

Jim chuckles, a rather light and rich sound that reminds John idly of the cologne the criminal always wore; musky, and smokey with just a hint of sweetness in there. The Irishman reaches forward to brush crumbs off the blond's lips and chin before saying softly, "I’m glad." His voice was tender, and maybe a little shy- and it makes John's head spin for just a moment, before he stiffens. It's not because he was being touched- rather, it's because Jim Moriarty, infamous psychotic mastermind, is wiping crumbs off his face like a doting mother! And then, John Watson begins to laugh- small and faint at first, but it steadily grows until he is clutching his sides, and his stormy blue eyes are scrunched shut.

The brunette blinks dumbly at his companion for a few moments before joining him; because John's laughter is the most beautiful sound James Moriarty has ever heard, even if the blond was laughing at his expense.

It takes a few moments for the blond to reign in his giggles, but when he does, John is looking at Jim happily- laughter crinkling the corners of his eyes and deepening the lines on his face further. "I'm sorry- where are my manners? It seems that they have abandoned me..."

"I don't mind." Moriarty shocks himself by realizing those words ring completely true. "I uh... don't mind being the person you're laughing at, as long as you're laughing. I like it when you laugh." It's a gentle admission, one Jim was almost afraid to speak. 

John almost stops abruptly, his mouth falling open as he stares at the younger man incredulously. "Oh...well, I uh...well I guess I’ll have to find it in me to laugh more often then." He looks down at his lap shyly, but can't stop smiling. 

But Jim is afraid that he has made things awkward, so he turns his attention back to the tea. "So...we were going to talk..."

Looking up slowly, John's smile falters a bit. "Ah yes...we were supposed to do that over tea. And here I thought we could just make silly jokes and pretend all the bad stuff never happened." He half jokes, and shrugs, looking down at his lap again. "Well, I suppose you can start the talking, since I don't really know where to begin."

Moriarty cringes, and wishes that he could take back his words; but he can't, so he soldiers on. "You said that everything was upside down, and backwards. Care to elaborate on that?"

The doctor's shoulders slump, and he sighs; not removing his heated stare from the hands now folded in his lap. "I...well, I always thought my life would be carried out, always at Sherlock's side- helping him solve crimes, and saving him from the darker parts of himself." John's voice is somewhat light and detached, as if he was telling a story that had nothing to do with him, and yet he was the main character in this twisted tale. "And now...here I am, sitting on a bed next to the man I am supposed to hate, but can't bring myself to anymore...not after you saved me from a fate worse than death."

Resisting the urge to reach out to John, Moriarty instead busies himself with sliding the other man's tea towards him. "So you're upset not only because of Sherlock, but because of me too..."

John reaches out, and lifts the teacup to his lips, and sips at the perfectly brewed Earl Grey, with only one sugar and no milk- just how he likes it. After a moment, he collects his thoughts and replies hesitantly, "Not really upset...just, lost." His brows furrow together. "I just don't know what to believe in anymore, and it scares me. I feel... I feel like I'm wandering through a labyrinth, so dark I cannot see a way out, no matter how hard I try running towards the tiny speck of light, I think I keep seeing up ahead..."

The urge to reach out to the broken man in front of him returns even stronger this time, but Jim resists it. "Many people feel lost after a traumatic experience. Surely you know this, after your injury in Afghanistan, as well as with all the cases you've seen as a doctor. But you are not lost John. You can do whatever you want with your life. As soon as certain matters are taken care of, you can leave and be whoever you want. Someone completely new, or simply just John Watson."

John twists the cream colored duvet in his fingers, distractedly biting his lower lip to keep it from trembling. "I...I know that it is possible to come back from the darkness of terrible things but...I just don't know if I have it in me anymore. I feel- so tired...so willing to just lie down, and never get back up. That's what scares me the most I think, my acceptance of not wanting to live anymore, after all the other things that I’ve been through."

This time he can't help it, and James Moriarty reaches out, holding John Watson's face between his smooth hands. "Don't you do that John, don't you even think about it! You're a soldier damn it, and I will not let you give up now! Not now, not ever! Don't you dare give up John!"

The blond's eyes widen impossibly, when Jim's pale, smooth hands gently cradle his face between them; but still hold there firmly enough to drive his point across. His voice, always so bouncy and bright, or laced with dark intent surprises John the most- because it is rough, and full of concern. "I...Jim- I...why do you even care if I die?" He asks, quivering from the brunette's touch because it equally repulses, and comforts him.

Moriarty can only stare at the older man, because he can't tell John the truth, but he doesn't want to keep lying to him any more either. Instead, Jim lets the blond go, and turns to leave without another word.

Before he can leave however, John speaks up- voice a little soft, and hesitant. "But you know...what scares me the most, is the fact that I can tell you all this without a second thought...but, I would have kept it from Sherlock, held onto my pain so I would not be scorned for it."

Jim freezes cold in his retreating steps and clenches his hands at his sides. He doesn't know what to do or say in the face of John's admission, so he lets his body act on its own accord. The brunette spins around, closing the distance between them again, and takes John's face in his hands once more. Only this time, Jim leans forward and ever so softly presses his lips to Watson's. It's only for a few seconds and then he pulls away, and bores his eyes into the other's wide blue one's. "That...is why I care." Moriarty rumbles out, before straightening and leaving the room; not giving John H. Watson the chance to either reject him or burst out into tears.

John's lips still burn from the heat of Jim's, but he can't decide whether it's from a spark of desire, or disgust...and now well, he's even more confused than he ever thought possible. 

–

James Moriarty finds himself out in the back of the little house, a few hours later, shooting at potted plants– when he hears the door open behind him. He doesn't care who it is, maybe it's Moran with information, but he'll see that his boss is not in the mood for talking, if it is him. With a bit of difficulty, John struggles with the door, and wheeling himself out into the garden at the same time. Huffing a pissy sigh, and glaring at his knees, the blond speaks up. "I know you're busy venting your sexual frustration Jim, but I would appreciate a bit of help, if you'll give it."

The criminal's head snaps around so fast, at the exact moment that he pulls the trigger again. This results in his next shot going off course and hitting a glass street lamp a few houses down. "John..." He states dumbly, for once with out a single thing to say- whether it be a snide remark, or a well placed one liner.

"Well, now that was an impressive shot." John replies, a bit of snarkiness in his tone. It seem that maybe Jim's kiss did more than confuse the ex-army doctor...it has riled him up in a way, that has brought him back to being more himself than he has been in weeks. Moriarty nervously puts the safety back on his gun, and then walks briskly over to help the blond. Once they are outside, he turns to retreat inside, thinking John probably doesn't want to see or talk to him. "Oh no Jim, don't you dare walk away!! It's rude you know?" His cheeks are reddening at this point and John glares sullenly at the floor.

Jim blinks numbly at the blond for a few long moments before standing awkwardly off to the side, unsure of what the older man wants him to do, since it's apparent in Watson's tone he doesn't want the brunette to go away. The older man huffs out, still a little annoyed, but tries to will it away. He needs to talk to the Consulting Criminal, because this whole situation is driving him crazy, and making his skin itch!! "Have I upset you somehow Jim?"

Moriarty looks at the blond doctor with wrinkled brows, wondering how exactly the man comes to such strange conclusions. "Upset me? You're worried that you've upset me?"

"Well of course I am! What else am I supposed to think, when you kiss me and then avoid me like the plague?!" John shouts, cheeks flushing as he says it out loud." Is it because I didn't kiss back immediately? Because I would think you should have the good sense to realize I'm not quite really ready for anything of the sort..."

"I didn't even plan to kiss you, why would I expect you to kiss back?!" Jim is angry because, he can't fucking believe he did that! And now he will have to apologize to John, and he fucking hates doing that even more!

John flinches, his eyes withering from the indignant anger he felt, to crippling hurt. "I'm sorry..." He whispers, trying his hardest not to tremble from the brunette's words.

Watching the blond warily for a few moments, seeing the hurt he's caused, it feels like a sucker punch to Jim's gut. He's upset because he wants to kiss the doctor, more than anything, but he could never do that to him... James Moriarty could never force John Watson to do anything...not even for a single kiss.

The blond's gaze softens, even though he's still upset and confused. "Jim...you are so very kind...it frightens me a little. Not because it has anything to do with you as a person, but because I'm afraid that given time...I would want you to kiss me too. But, I shouldn't want that, not from anyone ever again. It will...only cause me pain." He sucks in a harsh breath against the tears stinging his eyes, and making his lungs squeeze painfully.

In his mind, Jim watches again from a hidden camera as the person John trusted the most in the world, broke not only his trust, but his body and his heart. At the time the psychopath had felt pity for him- now he feels a burning anger, and a desire to see Sherlock Holmes screaming in pain, in pure agony, before Moriarty kills him with his bare hands. But he doesn't say any of this out loud, he just nods. "You don't have to explain yourself to me." Jim keeps his voice blank, and unaffected.

"I do...I do have to explain myself to you, Jim. Because even if it started with you just toying around with me to get back at Sherlock, you have some sort of feelings towards me now." John smiles a little sadly. "And I just need you to know that I may never return them...no matter how hard either of us tries."

The brunette puts on his 'James Moriarty' face and gives the doctor the same smile he gave him at the pool. "Oh Johnny Boy...let's never talk about this again." With that he turns, and walks inside.

John tries to wheel his way after Moriarty's quick, retreating footsteps, and in his haste he does not see the slight dip in the pavement before him. The left wheel spins out of control, and before he can do anything to stop it, the doctor finds himself sprawled out on the cold hard ground; his wheel chair on its side, and the one wheel still spinning uselessly. He had cried out in shock, and a bit of fear, before he toppled downwards, skinning the palms of his hands into a bloody mess when the blond tried to break his fall. Now, John's just caught between small hiccuping chuckles over his situation, and pathetic sobs.

Of course Watson doesn't see Jim stop in the doorway, torn between helping the recuperating man himself or calling for Moran. But, he reasons with himself, he is Jim mother fucking Moriarty- and he needed to remember that, even if all he wants is to help the unassuming man who wore jumpers and drank tea, but could kill a man or save a life without even blinking. The Consulting Criminal continues walking, barking out an order to Moran as he passes him- though he's already on his way to the blond's side, since he heard him yell as he fell. The self pity finally kicks in, as John lay's limp and useless on the ground. "So pathetic..." he mumbles, and digs his fingers against the rough pavement.

Moran approaches the good doctor, righting his chair before helping him sit up. He looks at the man's torn and bloody hands and sighs, texting the nurse on call that she's needed for a quick patch up. "C'mon, doctor Watson."

"Thank you..." John mumbles sullenly, staring down with a numb sort of detachment at his bloodied hands.

Seb does most of the work getting Watson into the chair, the somewhat haunted look in his stormy blue eyes making him frown more as time goes by. He knows that Dr. Watson probably wouldn't remember this, but Sebastian Moran knows that the two of them had met before. In an era long before the level headed man was Sherlock's flatmate, and before he himself was Moriarty’s gunman. John had patched him up after he was shot on the battlefield. There were a lot of young men, so Sebastian knows the older man wouldn't remember him specifically. But, he never forgot a face, especially one that saved his life. Seeing John Watson like this now makes him want to kill everything Holmes holds dear, and then him.

"Moran..." John whispers softly, not looking up from the red line that trails slowly down his wrist, reminding him all too well of being chained to a headboard; his wrists rubbed raw and bleeding. "Why do you all take care of me like this? Surely if you're using me as a pawn to lure out Sherlock, you wouldn't have to patch me up, serve me tea, and make me smile again..."

"We may be criminals, but we still 'ave manners." Moran shrugs, before smirking lightly. "'Sides, the boss likes to spoil people, 'specially people he likes. James Moriarty might be sadistic and ruthless, and willing to stoop to any level- but I’ve found that Jim is a decent 'uman being. He was disgusted by what Sherlock did, you know. Jim may be...adventurous in bed, but he's never been cruel."

"And does he spoil you Moran?" John asks, trying his hardest to crack a joke from this somber and awkward situation. The doctor tries to hide the fact that Moran's words have caused him to start possibly rethinking his entire way of believing, and how now his world is turned upside down once more.

"Sometimes he does. 'e'll bring me stuff from away missions and invite me to drink with 'im every now and then. And the sex is just...mind blowing. Though I’ve only talked 'im into it three times."

Watson tries not to cringe at the mention of sex, especially talked about so candidly. "Oh...uh...I see." He can't really bring himself to say anything more on the matter, since he's torn between revulsion and interest.

Smirking to himself, Sebastian helps John onto the couch in the sitting room. "The medic'll be 'ere soon, any telly you wanna watch?"

The blond tries to smile at his caretaker, truly grateful for all his help, but it is small and it is strained. "Yes, um...just whatever mindless sitcom, don't really want to focus on anything, but a good laugh."

Moran nods dutifully, turning on the telly to a random sitcom which sounds funny enough, before sitting next to the older man, and pulling a small crossword book out of his jacket pocket. As he does, the sniper's sleeve accidentally gets pulled up, and reveals his very distinct tiger tattoo.

Vaguely interested in the show, John was pulled from it for a moment when he notices Moran sitting down next to him. He watches with amusement as the man pulls out a tiny cross word book from his jacket pocket, until his observant gaze hones in on a very familiar tattoo. "I...I've seen that before..." John murmurs, and keeps his gaze fixed thoughtfully upon Moran's forearm, trying to recall where exactly he'd seen it before.

Seb quirks an eyebrow, pulling his sleeve up further to reveal the rest of the tattoo. "Have yeh?" He murmurs, but gives no indication of where exactly the doctor could have seen it before.

"Yes...I believe I have- a long time ago, though I can't quite recall where..." John's voice trails off, eyes distant as he wracks through all his memories. A fuzzy image comes to mind- a stifling tent, bomb shells and fire. The heavy scent of blood, and acrid smoke filling the air. A man, bleeding to death from a bullet wound or three in his abdomen and begging for his life to be saved. "The war...I think it was during the war. I saved a lad's life, he had a tattoo just like that if I remember correctly." The blond looks up into Moran's flinty blue eyes, trying to gauge whether this memory is false or not.

He keeps his face blank, but nods. "Yeh 'ave an impressive memory, Doctor Watson."

John looks the muscular blond up and down, a little shocked that a man who had almost given his life for his country- a man just like himself- could turn to a life such as this. "I suppose I do...though I admittedly can't remember your real name."

"What if I told ya' Moran is my real name? Sebastian Moran."

"Sebastian." The blond tests the way it sounds on his tongue, and smiles. "It's a fine name." John then holds out one of his skinned hands suddenly, and Seb stares at it for a moment, clearly confused before the older man says, "John Watson, it's nice to meet you."

"Doc, I think we got introductions outta the way two weeks ago. Remember? I came into yer room with a wheelchair, and ya' said, 'Who the 'ell are you?'. And I said, 'Moran'."

"Yes, well..." John falters, but doesn't retract his hand. "That was before I started to know the real you, just like how I didn't know the real Jim. So, just take my hand and shake it; it'll make me feel better if you do."

Moran shrugs, still not quite getting why the doctor wants a handshake so bad, but reaches out and squeezes his hand gently since the on call nurse still had not arrived to bandage John's hands, and gave two quick shakes.

John smiles, gripping back firmly and letting go after Sebastian has shaken his hand. He turns his attention back to the telly after that, and loses himself in the mind numbing hum of words and static studio laughter. 

The doctor falls asleep some time later, when Moran is on his fifth cross word. During that time, one of the female nurses on call came by, and gently cleaned John's hands and bandaged them, before leaving. Sebastian is a little surprised when the blond slumps against his shoulder, some how still asleep, regardless of having his open cuts disinfected and wrapped up. He debates carrying Watson to his bed when, Jim walks in. Expecting the unpredictable Irishman to fly into a black rage when he catches sight of them canoodling on the couch, Moran is completely thrown for a loop when all he does is snap a picture of them, and walks away with a little smirk. 

–

Moriarty knows he shouldn't be upset with John; he's only told the criminal the truth, the very truth he has been expecting. Still, he can't calm down until he's had the promise of killing some assassins who are lurking about, and blowing up some stupid town in the middle east. With that taken care of, Jim makes his way to the sitting room, having to blink a few times when he sees the image of Moran and John snuggling, well really it's just John looking comfortable while leaning into Moran, on the couch. Oh Sherlock will love this! He thinks wickedly, snapping a picture and sending it as he walks away, meandering aimlessly. 

–

The genius psychopath was plowing into the limp and drugged up male prostitute he had hired for the evening, a pretty little blond with innocent blue eyes; but still no where near as beautiful as the wonderful body he wished to be partaking in- when his phone, thrown haphazardly onto a nearby nightstand, buzzed. Sherlock growls in irritation, and thrusts extra rough into the pliant (well used) hole, before grabbing for his phone and cursing when he sees the number. Moriarty...this was beginning to grow tiresome, Sherlock wanted to sigh, but a moan caught in his throat when the picture message loaded. It was John, fast asleep and looking far too peaceful for a man who should be haunted by nightmares of his former flatmate's face. Then, he notices belatedly, the man John was leaning against- Moriarty’s LAPDOG. 

Rage wells up, and with a decisive snap Sherlock twists and breaks the prostitutes fragile neck in his anger. This was it, this was the final straw! And so, he dialed the number he had too much frequency calling as of late, and waited for that bastard to pick up.

Jim chuckles as his phone starts to buzz, and he answers with a singsong, "Hello?"

"So now you're whoring my toy around, Jim?" Sherlock grinds out, still balls deep inside a dead prostitute. "I told you not to play with my things, and yet here you are- posing the slut like a little doll, and taunting me! You're playing with fire Jim, and soon you will burn, and I will enjoy every single agonizing moment of it."

Instantly Moriarty's smile drops and he snarls in reply, "Call him a slut again, and you'll be lucky if you survive the night."

Sherlock frowns, something protective is lacing his nemesis's normally stoic voice, and it causes a cold fury to ignite in the pit of his stomach. "Oh, don't tell me the slut seduced you Jim? You know, he's not as fragile as you want him to be, coddling and protecting him like a babe. His body can take a pounding, and I can see he bounces back rather quickly on an emotional level- able to let two men fuck him like the whore he is." Sherlock pulls out of the cooling body, his cock limp and hanging useless now. 

He pulls on his clothes quickly while demanding, "If you do not return him within three days, I will not only kill your little lapdog, but I’ll also strap you down and make you watch as I fuck John, and torture him within an inch of his life...just to see you suffer."

"If you think I’ll ever let that happen, you're more of an idiot than I thought," Jim hisses, "and unlike some psychopaths, I don't fuck people without their consent. And after what you did to him, he will not be consenting anytime soon. Moran does nothing unless I tell him to, so to sum it up, neither of us have fucked the good doctor."

"Oh how droll..." Sherlock replies, a lazy quality to his tone. "You're in love with John, aren't you little Jimmy? Treating him like a china doll, it's just too precious!" Suddenly his voice becomes deep, and dark. "Well he. Is. MINE. And soon he will be in my capable hands, and I will wring wonderful cries of pleasure and pain from his throat again. I will make him beg for me, and he will soon forget that James Moriarty ever existed."

"You really think he'll ever take pleasure from being with you? Do you think he'll ever love you, or want you fucking him? If so, you're even more deluded than I had imagined, Sherlock."

"Yes, Jim, and you're naïve if you do not understand that wills can be broken, and minds can bend- if you know what kind of pressure points to push."

Moriarty opens his mouth to reply, but freezes when he hears two voices coming closer. Moran is laughing while John recounts some tale from his army days, a patch up of some over excited eighteen year old who got caught in a crossfire like an idiot.

Sherlock freezes as well, when he hears John's soft voice, full of fond reminiscence as he shares a story from his past- something he never once shared with the detective. "JOHN!!" He screams out, hoping in vain that maybe the doctor could hear him, and wrench the phone away from Moriarty so he can plead with him to change and for them to be together again. "I swear, if you do not let me speak to him, I will slowly melt the flesh off your bones, and force you to drink it all up..." Sherlock spits out darkly. 

John stops in the middle of his sentence, hearing Sherlock's voice, and he looks at Jim with the widest, biggest eyes full of fear. Moriarty tilts his head to the side, and smiles lopsidedly before he sing-song's, "I don't think he wants to talk to you."

"Put-him-on-the-phone-NOW!!!" Sherlock growls, and because he's so angry, he takes the dead prostitute by the scalp and smashes his face against the nearest wall; a wet squelching sound loud enough that even Moriarty can hear it, following his demand.

That gravelly, dark tone that once set fire licking up his spine in untold desire, turns John's skin ice cold. He knows it's Sherlock's voice, doesn't even need to ask Jim, because his face when he sees the doctor's tells it all. John is afraid then, and he is inside 221b, fastened to a headboard, a plastic gag clattering against his teeth, and his legs are on fire and uselessly hanging to the side. Cold clamminess, a sensation that Watson is becoming too familiar with, clutches at his heart and SQEEZES. But... he knows that he needs to talk to Sherlock, just once. 

John Watson needs to know if his former friend is beyond saving... he needs to know if his heart should shut down, and if he should finally give up on the man he had once come to love. The blond softly whispers to Sebastian, asking him to wheel him over to Jim, and the man does so. John can see Jim's expression, and the brunette knows instantly what the doctor wants. He sighs, shakes his head like he is dealing with a dull witted child, but hands John his mobile none the less. Watson breaths deep, and then, in the most fearful little voice (and it makes him cringe) he whispers, "S-Sherlock?"

John's voice is like a potent drug running through Sherlock's veins and his fear, so sweet and pure in its tone, immediately renews his hard on. "John..." he breathes, eyes fluttering shut as a tiny smile twists his lips.

The doctor's breath hitches, because it's too soon...all too soon, but he needs this absolution more than anything. It takes a few moments to force his heart rate to slow, but when it does he tries to use his voice again. "Hello...how are you?" John knows it is weak, and feeble...but he really can't think of anything more to say, now that he has the chance.

Sherlock's answering chuckle is dark and condescending, and his voice is more of a sneer when he talks, "You even sound pathetic."

John flinches and tears instantly prick at his eyes. He knows then, that Sherlock Holmes is gone, and that whatever thing was left in his wake, will never give him back. "Well...I see you haven't changed one bit, since last we met." The blond manages to snap back, all the false bravado he can muster the only thing keeping his tone level, and even. "It's a pity Sherlock, since I suppose this means we will never see each other again."

The detective snarls, griping the phone almost tight enough to crack the screen. "I. Will. Find. You. And when I do, the first thing I’ll do is break your legs again, and make you kneel on them as I fuck your throat. Right in front of your new friends."

"I'd like to see you try Sherlock!" John screams into the receiver, "Because if I see you again, I will not hesitate to put a bullet between your soulless blue eyes. And if I can't get the job done, my new 'friends' will happily do it for me!" He is panting for breath now, the room spinning in dizzying circles as he tries to calm himself down.

There's silence on the other end of the phone, before Sherlock releases a bone chilling laugh. Lazily he reaches down and palms himself through his pants. "Don't forget, my little whore, that I know you- and I know your body. I know what it feels like to be inside your tight...bleeding...ass. And I promise you that I will be again. In every way, every single morning and night. Because you won't be able to do it. You can't kill me. Even if you wanted to."

John's skin crawls, and he starts to tremble. He's feeling sick now, and the room is spinning faster, and he can't pull air quickly enough into his lungs. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes, and then the worst things happens- the ex-army doctor starts to cry, a whimpering, pathetic sound that makes him wish he had never decided to talk to Sherlock Holmes.

A grin splits the detective's face, as he rubs harder at his cock. "Oh those tears...I still remember the taste. I’ll lick them off your cheeks while I fuck your ass. And then, just before I cum, I’ll pull out and paint your face with my seed. Tears and cum...very soon they will be the only thing you can taste."

"Please..." John whimpers, and hates himself even more for it. "Please Sherlock...come back." He looks up at Jim, and sees the pained expression he is leveling him with; like every moment of witnessing this is hurting him, as much as it is hurting John. The blond swallows past the lump in his throat, and he sucks up his tears. 

No...this was no time to break down, and cry like a child. This was a time to hurt, inflict pain where it was due. "Forgive me Sherlock, that was weak of me." John replies offhandedly, "But I feel better now, that Jim is here. Did you know, he kissed me earlier today? And you know what Sherlock, I liked it. You never once kissed me, he has taken something from you that you can never claim!"

Sherlock's actions freeze as rage, hot and heavy, floods his body, and he let out a low, primal growl. "I wonder if you will still like kissing him after I rip his tongue out, and shove it down your throat!" He snarls, and feels the screen of his phone shattering, pieces of glass embedding themselves in his cheek, but he ignores it. "He may have taken your lips, but I've taken everything else. You're mine John Watson, I claimed you. I spilled my seed so far inside your body I'm sure it's still there. And when I get my hands on you, I’ll make sure you remember your place. I'm sure it will be a long lesson, but I can promise you that I’ll enjoy it."

"You may have taken my body Sherlock Holmes," Watson replies coldly, "but you will never take my heart. You will never truly own me the way James Moriarty does, and it will drive you mad with jealousy. And if you ever dare lay a hand on Jim’s head, I will personally take each and every one of your boney little fingers, and snap them in half." The doctor is shaking with rage at the end, but he finds that the thought of causing his former friend pain, twists his gut with a sick knot of pleasure.

His vision goes red with something close to mania, but when Sherlock speaks, his voice is calm and deliberate. "I will find you John. And when I do, I’ll have to teach my pet better manners. I will break you, in every way possible. And you will stay broken, to sit, stand or crawl at my every whim."

"It will NEVER happen, because as long as I live, I will do anything within my power to defy you!" John screams, and now he is clenching Jim’s phone until his knuckles are whiter than bone. "So go ahead Sherlock, pleasure yourself to memories of the one night you were able to rape me, because it will be the last time I let you touch my body again."

Sherlock chuckles again, speaking with a light, almost friendly tone. "How sweet. You truly believe that, don't you? Oh darling..." His voice drops down to deadly now, "Your hope will be the first thing to go."

John smiles at that, knowing the crazed detective can't see it. "Goodbye Sherlock. As lovely as this chat was, I think Jim is getting antsy..." His tone dips down into something deep, and sultry, "And he's a lot like you, he really hates waiting to play with his things." Moriarty quickly grabs the phone, and hangs up before Sherlock can reply. Then he levels a hard, though not angry, glare at the good doctor.

Watson slumps back, all the anger and bravado leaving him- leeching through his skin through the tears that are now leaking down his cheeks.

Jim sighs, wanting to scold the blond for baiting a dangerous psychopath, but at the same time wanting to comfort him. He glances up at Moran, silently asking him what he should do.

John sniffles softly, and then laughs a little humorlessly. "I'm sorry Jim...I don't know what came over me... I shouldn't have dragged you into this. He's going to want your head more than ever now, and I should not have baited him into it...I hope- I hope that you can forgive me?"

Sighing again, Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't give a flying fuck that Sherlock wants to kill me, many people do." He looks up, amber eyes blazing, "What I do give a fuck about, is that now he will come after you with a fucking vengeance! And there may come a time when I can't protect you John! I'm not perfect, and he's on a fucking war path! If he ever gets a hold of you, he will show no mercy."

He knows that he should feel bad, because Moriarty is genuinely concerned for him, but John Watson also wants to protect the brunette too... and that thought alone makes him feel small, and lost in this whole fucking mess. "Jim...I- I know you want to protect me, with every ounce of your power but...if there does come a time when Sherlock gets a holed of me, promise to leave me behind? Promise me, you'll do what James Moriarty does best, and save yourself?"

It feels like the blond has just slapped him across the face, and Jim blinks at John, dumbfounded for a long time before a glare settles across his features. "How...fucking...dare you? How can you fucking ask that of me John?!"

John knows how hurt his callous words have made Jim feel, so he whispers softly, a gentle balm to sooth the burns, "Because Jim, you're my friend...and I would rather shoulder all of Sherlock's hate, and rage than have him muss a single hair on your head." Looking away, because he can't let the Irishman see the utter affection he harbors for him in his eyes, John finishes. "So please...for my sake, don't let him hurt you."

Moriarty can't even calm down enough to pretend to speak, so he storms away, a line of the filthiest curses following in his wake. The doctor sighs, slumping in on himself even further. 'Well,' he thinks sourly, 'that could have gone better'. 

"Sebastian..." John murmurs after a minute, "Would you mind taking me to my room? I'm feeling rather drained..."

Moran doesn't reply, just begins pushing the older man towards his room. After about half a minute though, he can't help but mutter out, "Yer an idiot."

John smiles, and it's 50% sad and 50% self depreciating. "I know...but it's hard not to be an idiot, when you want a psychopath to promise you not to get himself killed." Sebastian just rolls his eyes, but helps Watson into bed- pausing in the doorway to say goodnight. "Sebastian..." The blond's tone is soft, and lilting at the end with a question. "If it ever comes down to it, can you promise me you will make Jim leave me?"

"...I can't do that doc...I'm sorry. It's not just 'cause he would kill me. He would also die. He'd die inside, and as one 'o the few people who've seen 'ow good he can be inside...I just can't..."

John's expression pinches, but he nods. "I understand Sebastian...and I...well thank you, for everything you've done for me. And...when you get the chance, tell Jim I'm sorry for what I said." He lays down then, and turns his back on Moran- curling in on himself as best as he can with his useless legs. He barely registers the door, quietly clicking shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time around   
> redroses100 was: Jim, Moran, and Sherlock during the phone conversation with John   
> Loreyulia was: John and Sherlock


	6. As we share the love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Moran gives Watson romance advice, and things get steamy between the Doctor and the Consulting Criminal.

The Thinning Line 

Chapter Six: As we share the love 

~Two Months Later~

John Watson looks similar to a baby giraffe, walking for the first time on long, wobbly legs. But it's been two months since the doctor started physical therapy, and it's hardly the first time the thought has come into Jim's mind. It's almost painful for the brunette to watch him doing this. It hurts to watch John having to learn how to walk all over again, like a child. Moriarty sees the blond's knee buckle, but Seb grabs him right before he can collapse to the ground. "He's making good progress, Mr. Moriarty." The physical therapy counselor tells the Consulting Criminal when he frowns.

The blond is huffing, the exertion used to simply walk is frustrating him! But, he still can't help the small smile that quirks his lips, because it's still PROGRESS. John uses Sebastian’s well muscled arm to push up, and off of, and now he is taking another wobbly step forward all over again.

Jim sees the older man's small smile, and can't help but smile himself. It's been two whole months since the call with Sherlock, and he hasn't contacted, or even taunted, the sick fuck at all. The criminal also hardly ever lets John see him. Instead, he watches the doctor probably more than he would be comfortable with, but what Watson doesn't know won't hurt him, Moriarty reasons with himself. The only time they interact is when Seb creates some sneaky situation to get the three of them together in a room... like those stupid things called 'dinners.'

As John is taking his fifth hesitant step forward, his ankle almost folds beneath him. He goes to topple down, but Sebastian, big, burly, impatient Sebastian is there to catch him before he falls. As the blond's body twists, and he is being supported by a pair of strong arms, John catches sight of a shadow lurking in the hallway. It's not very tall, but lean and he instantly knows who it belongs to. Smiling at the brunette's childish display he simply says, "Jim, you don't have to lurk around corners anymore...if you want to come talk to me, then bloody well do it."

Moriarty stands there for another few moments, before turning and walking away. He won't let himself talk to the good doctor because inevitably, every time he does, Jim ends up distressed and in need of a good murder to calm himself down. When Watson hears Jim's retreating footsteps, he sighs heavily, and looks up to Sebastian. "Why won't he talk to me...? Is...is he still mad from when I spoke with Sherlock?" The blond's expression pinches, and his gaze swims with so many unanswered questions.

"Jim...oh hell...I 'ave no idea what goes through his head on a good day. But I'm pretty sure it might have sumthink to do with unrequited feelings, and intense concern, etc." John frowns at that, because he is never completely sure if Jim truly does have feelings for him, or if the two of his caretakers are simply batting him around like a well used cat toy for their entertainment.

Sebastian senses John's hesitancy, and rolls his eyes. "Y'know, I’ve never seen 'im act like this afore- like a teen who was spurned by someone they were madly in love with. I honestly didn't think it was possible, but the evidence is right in front of my eyes. He cares about ya' doc. That's no lie."

John feels like the rug has been pulled out from under his feet, and his grip tightens on Seb's arm- as if he really felt like he would fall. "I just...I don't understand why he likes me so much... maybe that's why I have a hard time believing the validity of his feelings..."

The tall man scoffs, and rolls his eyes again. "Don't look at me Watson, Jim Moriarty thinks in ways no one can understand. But if I were 'im, I’d see a brilliant, resourceful, and tough ex army doctor who likes excitement- and is pretty damn attractive. If Jim didn't like ya' so much, I might press my advantage o' getting to be so close to ya'." Seb winks suggestively.

And then the flush devours John Watson's entire body, and suddenly the room feels too damn hot, and he is trying not to splutter. "I...please, Sebastian you're a wonderful guy, but please don't ever hit on me again." He whines, and tries not to look, and sound too embarrassed. "It makes me feel...like my younger sibling has just admitted feelings for me, and I don't know how to handle that..." 

Moran blinks at the older man, before roaring with laughter. "Doc...if I was flirtin' with ya', yeh would be naked by now! As it is, I 'ave other things on my mind 'sides your particular ass."

The blond's blush deepens, and he tries not to cringe over how awkward the situation is. "Sorry Sebby," John says, knowing how much the other blond hates the nickname, "I didn't mean to assume...but, if I may ask, what has your mind so distracted?"

Sebastian grins, his eyes going far away. "Oh...nothin'."

"Fine, keep your secrets." Watson huffs, turning away and glaring at nothing in particular.

Rolling his eyes at the childish reaction, Moran replies gruffly, "Not like ya' even know her."

"Her?" The blond tries to pretend not to be curious, but knows deep down that he was failing miserably.

"She's an ex CIA operative. Did alotta wet jobs. These days she's a nurse, hidin' from her naughty past."

"Ah, well..." John mumbles a bit before plodding on, "I’d say go get 'er tiger, but I'm not really in a position to give dating advice, am I?"

Sebastian only smirks at first, before settling for replying, "Yeh should sit for a while. You've been up longer than usual."

"Yes..." John sighs, and tries not to show how relieved he is to hear Seb say that. "If you don't mind, could you help me to my wheel chair? I'm feeling a little weak-kneed right now."

" 'Course doc." Moran helps the blond into his chair before, asking him where he'd like to go.

"The gardens, if you don't mind. A little bit of sunshine might invigorate these old bones." Watson smiles good naturedly, and looks up at his caretaker and friend, to share in their private little joke about his age.

" 'Cause you're so fucking old Watson," Sebastian says snarkily, rolling his eyes- the doctor has a habit of making him do that.

"Huh, what did you say?" John speaks up rather loudly, doing his best impression of a crotchety old man.

Moran lightly swats his charge on the back of his head. "Whoops, my hand slipped."

John glares up at Seb, though it's full of more fondness than actual anger. "I'm going to tell Jim that you're hitting me now...I feel abused."

"So abused... spoiled little prick, is more like it." Sebastian's words are warm and fond.

The older man hums at that, because there isn't much of a reply he could make. He was spoiled, practically rotten, by two men who killed without hesitation and enjoyed it. Wheeling John outside then, Seb sits at the little bench nearby, pulling out his newest puzzle book. "See you got a new one." Watson gestures towards the little booklet in Seb's hands. "You really like those things, don't you? Bet they make you feel smart." And then the blond is grinning like a total prat.

"Shaddup Watson, they're the only things keeping me from slapping Jim most days- and I don't see ya' doing anything with that supposedly big brain yeh have. I mean, yer no where close to Jim’s intelligence, but he keeps saying yer smarter than everybody gives ya' credit for."

John snorts at that, not really feeling offended by Moran's comment. "Well, Jim has a weird little head on his shoulders, doesn't he? I'm not nearly as clever as any of you lot, and I don't understand why he would think so. Sure, I might have better general knowledge on how to live like a normal person, no offense, but that's about it."

"In comparison to the general population, yer brilliant Watson. Yer very clever- and ya' know I don't like giving compliments."

Blushing a bit, John just hums a response. He retreats into himself then, because these past few days a certain little thought keeps niggling in the back of his head, and he is trying desperately to smash it flat. That little thought, suspiciously wears Jim’s face and taunts the good doctor about how warm his skin grows when the brunette touches him, or how speaking to Jim makes John smile more often than not, when he gets the chance.

"Yeh should just accept it, Watson. There's worse people ta' be in love with." 

'Worse people who you have been in love with' remains unsaid, but Sebastian is sure John can hear it in the silence anyway.

John stiffens visibly, cringing over how transparent he is. "I don't know what you're talking about..." he looks away shyly, trying to hide his red cheeks from his friend.

Seb just gives the blond a patronizing look that he knows John can see, even if he's not looking at him directly. "Oh, come off it John."

Watson groans, but knows it's futile to pretend that they both don't know what he is feeling. "I know...Jim, he's a wonderful man beneath all the madness. But...how could he really want a man who is battered and broken? Who, even though he was picked up and glued back together, some of the pieces went missing, and some just never fit back into the place they once resided?" John falls silent for a moment, staring at his trembling fingertips. "Jim deserves so much better than me..."

Moran snorts at that. "Maybe yer forgetting, but Jim's no saint. He's a murderer, and criminal, and just as fucked up as you. Yer really perfect for each other."

Flinching a bit at Seb's words, John is harshly reminded of the man behind the kind and gentle Jim he had grown to admire. "Oh, I know that..." he says softly, "but...I'm meaning more on an...intimate level." And if John Watson's face was hotter than the flames of hell, no one made mention of it.

"Ya' mean the sex, don't ya'?"

"Not just sex..." The blond mumbles, and tries not to blush any harder. "I don't know if I can offer him anything, but my quiet companionship. But...it's not like I'm not willing to try, it's just...I'm scared I would disappoint him."

Sebastian glances up at Jim, who's been standing in one of the walkways the whole time scarily silent, and gives him a shit eating grin. "I'm pretty sure, knowing Jim Moriarty, he would not give a fuck if yeh were quiet or loud. As long as yer his, that's that."

John's flush crawls down his neck, but he nods at that. "I know...but I can't help feeling like I would leave him unsatisfied all the same." He scoffs darkly, when the bad thoughts bubble forth and adds, "Besides, why would he want Sherlock's spoiled goods, anyway?"

"I wouldn't say yer spoiled goods. A little bent maybe, but not broken. And yeh have no idea the things Jim has seen, and done. Stop worrying so much about it and just don't think for a minute. Don't think and tell me what ya' really want. What do ya' want John Watson?"

"I want Jim to kiss me again...but this time, I don't want him to hold back, or run away when it's finished. I want him to hold me if I cry, or kiss me harder if I beg for more..." John grows silent for a long moment, before finishing, "That's what I truly, and honestly want."

"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint, Johnny Boy."

John practically jumps out of his skin when he hears Moriarty's lilting voice, and when he realizes that the brunette had been there to probably hear everything. "J-Jim!" He stutters, and tries to fight back the feeling of wanting to wheel away as fast as possible to avoid this situation.

The criminal mastermind leisurely walks towards the ex-army doctor, motioning for Moran to go, which he does. When Jim is in front of the blond, he stops and looks down at him with something between a smile and a smirk. "You could've just said." He drawls, like it was the most obvious fact he could ever state. 

The blond tries to look away, but he is too mesmerized by Jim's glittering amber eyes. "I'm sorry Jim...but, it's sort of hard to talk to you about these things, when you never stick around long enough for me to do so." John's chin raises a bit in defiance at the end, and he levels Moriarty with an unwavering stare.

Jim's toothy, shark like smile drops a little, and his eyes get a bit harder. "I was under the impression you didn't want me, and you never would. You didn't say it in so many words, but I can read between the lines, Johnny Boy."

Sighing, because the consulting criminal is absolutely right, John just shakes his head as he replies, "I have a bad habit of saying the wrong things to you, don't I?" He smiles a bit, a little amused by their odd relationship.

The short, lean Irishman puts his hands on the arms of Watson's wheelchair, on either side of him, and leans down to be just inches from his face. "That you do, John- that you do."

John smiles, but it's a little strained. "Then why do you even think this could remotely work between us...? We can never see eye to eye."

Jim leans in closer so his forehead is pressed to the the wrinkled brow of the beautiful blond before him. "We don't need to Johnny, It'll make things more interesting that way. Besides, you know me- I like to keep things dy-no-mite!"

The doctor presses up, and closes his eyes sweetly. "I shouldn't love you Jim...but I do. How...how did you do this to me?" John whispers, before he opens his stormy blue eyes, and just takes in everything that James Moriarty IS. He admires the man's dark, chestnut hair and his surprisingly warm amber eyes. His pale skin, and pointed face- with the sharp eyebrows that offset his wonderfully lopsided grin. And last, he revels in Jim's gorgeous voice, that airy accent sending tiny thrills across John's skin every time Moriarty opens his sexy, sinful mouth. 

Jim chuckles, rubbing his nose against John's softly. "I'm magic!" He replies sarcastically, though he's still grinning that half open, half closed off smile he was rather fond of doing.

A shiver wracks John's spine, and his smile widens. "Ah, always had a feeling you were a leprechaun, what with the accent and everything." He looks more intently at his companion, the blue depths of John's eyes, glittering like crystalline pools.

The brunette gives Watson an unimpressed look. "A leprechaun? Really John, you need more original material. You think I haven't heard leprechaun before?" He remarks with a smirk.

The doctor shrugs, the shit eating grin still not leaving his face. "Well, I thought it was funny."

Jim's lips just barely brush the blond's as he quips, "I guess my sense of humor doesn't get the funny part..."

"Jim..." John breathes against the other man's lips, torn between pressing forward or pulling away.

Moriarty chuckles again, before replying, "Should I assume then that you have no more protests?" His eyes are full of dark want, and desire- and that mischievous little smile told Watson everything he needed to know about what was on Jim's mind. 

John's eyebrows furrow, and then he pulls away just a fraction, looking slightly wounded by the brunette's words. "I...I'm so torn. My mind tells me to give myself to you, but my body repels everything you have to offer."

Jim's brows furrow too. "You don't have to give anything to me John. I don't expect a single thing from you, except perhaps your smile...or your laugh...or just the pleasure of your company." He accentuates each phrase with a kiss to the blond's forehead, then his nose, and then his cheek, and finally right next to his shapely lips. 

Jim's words, such sweet, gentle reassurances, makes something warm flutter in the pit of Watson's stomach. Each soft, smooth press of his pleasantly hot lips burns away what is left of the doctor's resolve. He whimpers, a soft needy sound, before he turns his face into Jim's; and now John is kissing the criminal's lovely lips. Jim's hands come up to cradle the blond's face and he worships his lips with his own.

The velvety soft texture of Moriarty's perfectly sculpted mouth, sends tiny thrills pulsing along John's skin. It's equal parts desire, and fear- but he pushes down that aching adrenaline rush, that tells him to run- with a firm suckle upon the brunette's pouty, lower lip. Reluctantly Jim pulls away from John's sexy, kiss bruised mouth, to look into his blue eyes- that hold tints of green and grey. "You don't have to do this John...you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable." He's giving the blond an out; a warning- because if this continues, Jim knows exactly how he wants it to end... and John may never be ready for the things swirling around in the criminal's imagination. 

John's face is so hot, his mouth tingling with a burning heat. His chest is quivering, because it feels so good to kiss, and it really shouldn't. "Jim," he murmurs, reaching up and curling his hands along the soft, short hairs behind the man's neck. "Please...don't make me think any more. Shine light upon my life, to chase away the darkness that haunts me."

"Why are you always so goddamn poetic John Watson?" Moriarty rolls his eyes, before suddenly scooping the blond up out of the chair, and into his arms.

John feels indignant for a moment, because being scooped up into another person's arms was something he was not used to. As a man, he had always done the scooping, and coddling... "I'm not poetic," he huffs crossly, "I'm just...an abstract thinker."

"Of course John. My mistake." Jim remarks, with a smirk. He quickly reaches the doctor's room, and carefully sets him down on his bed, sitting beside him.

The older man's legs dangle a little weakly over the side of his bed. He reaches out, and idly touches one of his kneecaps; tracing patterns upon the spiderweb of scars there, as he loses himself in tangled thoughts and memories. Jim gently lay's his hand on John's to stop his mind from wandering, and gives the blond a heartfelt smile. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Unexpectedly, even surprising himself, John twines his fingers into Jim's like a clinging vine of Ivy along a castle wall. "Jim...would you hate me, if I told you that I might love you? That what I feel, is something more than base attraction, and a need for companionship?" He smoothes gentle circles along the brunette's perfectly pale knuckles. "I want to...know everything about you. To make you smile, to chase away your own darkness, and give myself to you in equal parts, as you have to me."

James Moriarty is stunned into silence for a long moment, before he leans in and captures Watson's lips in another, more passionate kiss. It's a lot of firm presses, and gentle suckles on warm, yielding lips- but Jim can't really deny that it was one of the hottest kisses he's ever had the pleasure of receiving. When eventually he drags himself from John's mouth, a big, dopey smile is stretched across his face. "I'm a lucky fucking bastard." He murmurs, and presses his forehead to John's- staring into the depths of his storm-blue eyes, and trying not to get lost like a ship at sea. 

The older man leans back, his hands still twined within Jim's, as he drags the brunette down with him. Moriarty's lean frame is looming above John, as he nestles the weight of his head into the soft cradle of his pillow, and looks up into Jim's dark, achingly beautiful eyes. "If you go slowly, I think I can manage to offer you up some pleasure, love." John whispers, voice a hoarse hush of longing and trepidation.

Of course Jim's eyes show his hesitancy and concern, and he just stares down at the man spread out below him, for a long moment. "Are you absolutely sure this is what you want John? I am not a patient, or good man... once we start, I may not be able to stop- even if you cry, and beg." It's the last warning, and John Watson was one of the lucky lovers of James Moriarty- because the Irishman NEVER gave a warning to his partner's, just expected them to go along for the joyride. 

"Yes," he breathes out shakily, "I can't...you're not Sherlock, I know you'll never do anything to hurt me."

Amber eyes darken as his name leaves John's lips, though Jim can briefly appreciate the sentiment. "Don't say his name John. Don't even think about him. Not right now."

The blond untwists his fingers from Jim's warm, slightly sweaty palms and brushes them up into his silky smooth hair. "Okay, I promise." He leans up, and murmurs against his lover's cheek, before pressing a chaste kiss there. Moriarty can't help but groan before he attacks, stealing John's lips and kissing any remnant of sense out of him.

The hot, insistent glide of Jim's mouth along his own makes John's head spin, and without thinking he moans long, and hard, his mouth opening enough to beg for the criminal's tongue. Jim catches on quickly, sliding the thick, wet muscle between the blond's lips and entangles it with John's. After a good long time of battling with the doctor's skillful tongue, Jim slides his mouth down to suck at the man's jaw, then his neck, then the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

John's body shivers pleasantly, even if teeth and lips scraping along his neck brings back awful memories of sharp canines piercing the flesh and making him bleed. He groans instead, a deep rumble caught in his throat at the erotic sensation of London's most feared Criminal Mastermind, gently worshiping his body like a cherished possession. Jim returns to the blond's addicting lips while his hands wander lower; one stopping to tease at John's pert little nipple, the other going further.

His back arches up, when one of Jim's talented little fingers brushes along the hard pebble his nipple had become, even through layers of clothes and only a few kisses, and sucks to his neck. But when the other hand continues to travel further, John tenses- not really wanting his body to betray his fear, but not really able to prevent it. "Jim!" He chokes out, and tosses his head to the side, and presses his reddened cheeks into the pillow.

The brunette's actions stop immediately, and he looks at John with concern. "What is it?"

"It's..." John sucks in a shuddering breath, willing his panicked heartbeat to calm. "It's nothing...just keep going, Jim."

Jim feels his arousal throbbing uncomfortably in his trousers, but sighs and sits back, away from the blond. "I can't John. Not if it makes you uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry..." he mumbles sullenly, mad at only himself as he frowns.

Jim's head snaps up, guilt written clearer than freshly fallen snow on his face. "No, John, don't apologize." He gently strokes his fingers across John's wrinkled forehead, smoothing out the lines of anger. "I shouldn't have rushed you. I don't know what I was thinking– you're a rape victim for fucks sake!"

John practically leans into Moriarty's touch, as hot, wet tears pool in his eyes, and he bites his lip angrily because of his weakness. "Oh, Jim...please don't apologize! I'm mad at myself, not at you." Looking away, sniffling a bit for added measure John finishes, "I really do want you, but I don't think I'm as ready for this as I keep forcing myself to be... I want to bring you as much pleasure, as your kindness has to me."

Laying next to John, Jim pulls him into his arms, and lets the blond lay his head on his chest. "Just having you in my arms give me all the pleasure I could ask for."

The blond listens to Jim's heartbeat, strong and comforting, and it brings a smile to his face. "So," John begins, snuggling further into the younger man's chest so he can hear more of the soothing sound. "You do have a heart."

A small smirk crosses Jim's lips, "Don't let that get around, I have a reputation to uphold."

John laughs at that, a little surprised by the full and bright sound the criminal has pulled from his lips. The soft blush painting his cheeks deepens, because this really was love. John was in love with James Moriarty, a man who on many occasions had tried to kill him- and they hadn't even had sex yet. Jim shifts a little, trying to make sure the blond doesn't see or feel his raging hard on; and he smiles at the sound of John's laugh. It really was beautiful, and Jim can't help but wish that he could hear it more often than he does.

As Jim's body shifts, it catches the blond's attention, and briefly- so briefly he almost thinks he imagined it- John feels the hard, hot line of Jim's erection rub against his thigh, before he pulls his hips away; trying to cover up how hard he still is. Desire ignites in the pit of John's stomach, not just from the brunette's obvious attraction to him, but because he is pushing aside his needs, something John never believed James Moriarty would ever do. "You know," he starts, his tone light and a little coy, "you don't have to pretend like you still aren't painfully hard for me, Jim."

Moriarty curses lightly under his breath, and shifts further away mumbling, "It's nothing a cold shower won't cure."

From his position, head still pressed to Jim's chest, and body snuggled against him, John reaches his hands over the flat expanse of Jim's stomach- and down they go, until he is lightly cupping the man's hard cock through his expensive trousers. "Jim..." Watson leans up to moan breathily into his ear, "You don't have to deny pleasuring yourself. In fact, why don't you strip me bare, give yourself something to look at while you work at this wonderfully impressive dick, until you cum?"

Jim's breath catches in his throat, and his mind whites out for a moment. Before he can even compute what he's doing, Jim is up and pulling clothes off the blond as fast as he can without disturbing him. When John Watson is bare before him, Jim stops and just looks at him; absorbing the beauty of the ex-army doctor, and he feels his cock harden even more from just the sight. Jim reaches out, and runs his hands down the blond's sculpted chest and stomach, basking in the soft feel of his slightly tan skin. "John...oh John..."

Jim's voice, so thick and full of lust, and emotions sends shivers across John's skin. "Please..." he pleads, eyes wide and staring unwavering into beautiful amber, "I want you to pleasure yourself for me. If I can't do it myself, I want you to at least leave this room perfectly sated." Moriarty's heart swells in his chest, but he can find no words to reply. Instead he turns his hands on himself, slowly unbuttoning his jacket and shirt until they fall off his shoulders, leaving his chest bare.

John's gaze greedily drinks up the pale expanse of Jim's torso, shining brighter and more beautifully than pure starlight. His dusky pink nipples are hard, and perfectly shaped. The wiry muscles of his arms make the doctor's mouth water, especially when he catches sight of the hundreds of pale brown freckles scattered over the top of the brunette's shoulders. "Oh god Jim, you're beautiful..." John breathes out, a swollen ache settling in his chest, right next to his heart and constricting there.

The fire in Jim's belly blazes even higher with the blond's words of praise, and he leans down to kiss him again. "Not as beautiful as the perfection before me, love." He continues on, unbuckling his belt and pushing down his trousers and pants in one go.

A strangled moan bubbles in John's throat, when he finally catches sight of Jim's cock. It's not very big, just a little more than average, but it's hard and red and all for the good doctor. "Mmm, Jim..." he can't really find words to say now, his mind starting to go all fuzzy with desire.

Jim carefully wraps one of his long fingered hands around his prick, moaning at the heat of his own touch. "John..." he gasps, pretending it's the blond's hand around him. With John's body so open and bare before him, it's not hard to imagine. "Fuck John, you're perfect. The body of a soldier...my soldier..."

The brunette's gruff tone, as his sweaty palm encircles his cock and twists lazily up and down, makes John moan. He sits up straighter, giving Jim a better view of his body. Even if his cock is limp and useless, at least the rest of him could be appealing to look at. And with a wicked thought, John pulls his legs apart, and shows off his puckered little hole. As Watson reveals more of himself to Jim, he groans, low and passionately, and resists the urge to reach out to the blond. "John...the things I want to do to you...I want you to scream in pleasure...I want you to yell my name as you cum down my throat..." he works himself faster, the images dancing around in his head almost enough for Jim- but not quite. 

John's pupils are slowly starting to dilate, as he watches Jim pleasuring himself; and his words leave fiery tingles shooting through the blond's body all the way to the tips of his toes, and they curl with pleasure. He is trembling a bit, because his entire body is alight and ready, except the most important part. Watson looks down at his limp cock, and frowns, though he knows it's not really surprising. John's lust blown eyes feel like fire as they watch him, and with a little smirk Jim toys with the slit at the head of his cock, where pearly drops of precum are gathering. "I would worship you, if I could. I would take all the time in the world to watch you come undone beneath me. I would swallow every moan, I would delight in the feeling of your body trembling as you went over the edge into pure bliss. I would kiss you for hours, keeping you tucked in my arms, safe."

"Jim...I-" his throat is tightening so painfully against the tears of happiness, he almost can't speak. "I love you so much! I would let you worship my body, and when you are done I would worship yours. I would bring you the sweetest of pleasures, kiss you until neither of us can breathe any more and we simply cease to be- but so happy because we have each other no matter what." John whimpers then, and moves his hand up to his aching nipples and rubs a bit as he continues watching his lover. "If only...if only I realized how much I could love you sooner. Before...before Sherlock took what little left I could give to you..."

A growl leaves Moriarty's throat and his eyes darken. "John...don't. Say. His. Name. You've given me your heart, and that's the greatest thing I could ever beg for."

John flinches, realizing belatedly that he had voiced those thoughts aloud, when they were meant to stay locked up in the dark recesses of his most fearsome nightmares. "I'm sorry Jim...I didn't mean to say that out loud." But the rest of Jim's words send a warm ache into John's lungs, as the breath they once held is stolen away. "Say it Jim, please tell me the one thing I need to hear."

"I love you John...so much..." As he whispers that heated prayer, Jim reaches his peak and ropes of cum pulse from his cock.

The flush painting the brunette's pale cheeks, the redness of his full lips and the dark, glittering mess of his amber eyes as he says he loves him, has John's body reacting in a way he never thought it could again. It wasn't because Moriarty had cum, though the sight was wonderfully sensual enough to keep Watson entertained with fantasies for weeks, but rather because saying he loved him- and that was what pushed Jim over the edge. John's cock twitches a bit against his stomach, and finally blood starts rushing south, pooling in his abdomen and causing liquid fire to burn there until he moans, "Oh, Jim...oh god, Jim!"

As his intense orgasm subsides, Jim's eyes are drawn to the blond's cock, which has begun to stir to life. He smiles, a true smile of pure happiness. "Oh John...please...please can I bring you the same pleasure you've brought me?" He looks so ardently passionate, as if pleasuring John was the most wonderful thing he could ever accomplish. It makes John smile, soft and warm- because underneath all the ice, and thinly veiled acts of indifference, James Moriarty was still human. 

John nods quickly, not trusting himself to speak around the lump of emotion in his throat. Instead, he cants his hips forward, thrusting his hardening cock into the air in a wordless plea for stimulation. With a devilish grin, Jim stoops down, and surrounds John's cock with his hot lips, giving a firm suck right off the bat. "Ah-" he almost screams out, muffling his cry by biting harshly into his bottom lip. John wants to move forward, ply Jim's lips apart with the thrusting of his cock, and grab onto his soft hair and guide him- but, it makes something sick turn in John's stomach just thinking about using Jim for his pleasure like that...the same way Sherlock used him, and so he can't bring himself to move. He just lets his head drop back, and takes whatever the brunette has to offer.

Jim pulls off with an obscene and exaggerated pop, looking up at John through his dark eyelashes. "Don't hold back John, I would do anything for you darling."

"I know..." he breathes harshly through his nose, trying not to grow irritated that Moriarty pulled so soon off his cock. "I know Jim. But I...I will not use you. I can't...will never force my desires on someone."

He frowns slightly in reply. "John, it's not using me if I want you to let yourself go." The brunette nuzzles John's cock with a pout on his face.

"Oh god... " John tries not to sound too desperate when Jim lavishes attention on his weeping dick. "Jim, I know you are ready and willing to let me fuck your throat raw, but I-I don't know if I can do it, without feeling disgusted with myself."

Jim sighs, but nods. "Alright John." He trails his finger up the underside of the blond's cock, along the vein. John's hips thrust forward unwillingly, when Moriarty's smooth fingertips ignite a burning path along his length. "Just...please just make sure you don't so anything that will make you uncomfortable, for my sake, Jim."

The criminal can't help but chuckle. "You are so concerned about my comfort, when all I want is to pleasure you. Relax my love, I am quite comfortable." With that Jim takes John into his mouth again, giving a firm suck to his head before slowly inching his lips down, over the blond's rock hard prick.

John moans, deep and low as hesitantly, he places his fingers against the brunette's scalp and curls them into the softness of his hair. "Oh! That...that feels so good..." he murmurs, tracing gentle patterns into Jim's hair as he watches the younger man sucking him off, with a smile on his lips. Jim moans around the thick cock in his mouth, as the blond's blunt nails scratch across his scalp. His hair is Jim's weakness and as John tugs at the short strands, he hollows his cheeks, yearning to hear the man's glorious sounds of pleasure.

"Oh, fuck!" John almost screams, and despite all his words earlier, his hips are snapping up and thrusting himself deeper into Jim's sinful little mouth. His grip on the man's hair loosens though in a placation for his greedy actions.

Jim pulls off just long enough to snarl, "Don't you dare stop!" Before he takes John back down to the root, his tongue snaking hot, wet patterns along the thick shaft pulsing between his lips. 

John's mouth is going dry from all the heavy panting and moaning, so he merely nods before digging his fingers into Jim's hair and forcing him down as far as he dared onto his cock. The blond's hips snap up fiercely, then fall back down to the mattress, and then repeat the process again. "Jiiiiimmmmm..." the younger man's mouth is so hot, and wet and wonderful! "What did I do to deserve such perfection?" He looks down into Jim's rich, dark eyes incredulously, and smiles because he just loves the Irishman so damn much.

Moriarty gives his lover a shit eating grin around his prick and hums, the vibrations skyrocketing the older man's pleasure into the unbearable zone. John yelps, head lolling back as he takes in the ecstasy the brunette gives him. "Please, Jim! A little harder...I'm almost there..." Jim gives a few more hard, sucks- hollowing his cheeks as much as possible. John's body tenses, and he inhales fast and shaky as he spills his cum into Jim's pretty mouth. "Oh, god...I'm sorry- you can spit that out if you want." He murmurs softly.

Jim completely ignores the blond and swallows greedily, making sure not one drop escapes.

"Fuck...that should not be as hot as it is..." John breathes out, carding lazily through the brunette's hair as a reward.

Jim purrs eagerly, pushing his head up into the doctor's skillfull hands, like a content house cat after a good meal. "Did you enjoy that John?" 

"Yes," he whispers, love making his eyes crinkle attractively around the edges. "I enjoyed it more than I’ve ever enjoyed anything before." John bends down, and lays a soft kiss atop Jim's silky hair and inhales the scent of sex and the man's cologne.

Jim lays back next to his love, enfolding him in his arms with the intention of never letting go. At least not in the near future. "I love you John Watson." He whispers, his tone as light and airy as a summer breeze. 

"I love you too, James Moriarty." John sighs happily, snuggling into the warmth of Jim's naked skin, and smiling. In mere minutes, his head lolls forward, and he is spirited away into the land of oblivion. 

Moriarty watches the blond drift off, and closes his eyes- committing every last detail of this moment to memory. He does not fall asleep, just watches John and revels in the sound of his gentle snores, and strong heartbeat. He could not waste a single precious moment, because in the end, this was the only happiness James Moriarty had ever been given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update! I've been working on my own Sherlock fan fiction, and it's consuming my time.


	7. A lamb to the slaughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was always self sacrificial, and in the end it may crush every last shred of who he once was.

The Thinning Line 

Chapter Seven: A lamb to the slaughter 

Moriarty keeps a firm eye on the door, waiting for it to open and for Seb to return and explain, just why the fuck he's been gone for two days! He doesn't even notice the concerned look John is pinning him with. After all, the Consulting Criminal is acting strange, since Seb is just visiting his new 'lady friend', or so he told the good doctor to keep him from worrying. John already had enough on his plate, what with recovering, to spend time and energy fretting over the safety of a good friend. 

John shuffles over to the brunette, legs a bit wobbly, but he manages it somehow. When he is standing by Jim's side, he places a tentative hand upon his shoulder, and frowns when he finds it is slumped forward and not stiff and proud like usual. "Jim," John whispers, trying to gently coerce the man's attention towards him. "Is everything alright?"

Amber eyes snap to John while Jim paints a wide and fake, but convincing, smile on his face. "Of course John. Look at you, walking like a pro! You've made such good progress!"

A bright smile lifts the corners of the blonds lips, chasing away the fear and doubt haunting his eyes. "Yes, well...I had great friends to support me, and keep me from wallowing in my own self pity." John's fingers squeeze Jim's shoulder lightly, because he wants the man to know that what he's done for him has meant more than he can ever describe.

Jim lays a long, lingering kiss on John's lips and gives him another smile, though this one isn't quite as faked. "You know we would do anything for you John."

"I know." John smiles, and shoves his lovers shoulder playfully. "Sebastian says you spoil me."

"Oh, I do my little soldier." Jim breathes sweetly across the doctor's skin. "I spoil you rotten. In fact, I left something for you upstairs."

John raises an eyebrow at that, but can't help the smile that stays glued to his face. "A present? But it's not even my birthday, how thoughtful Jim. If I didn't know any better, I would say you were a regular Saint, my darling mass murderer." He says it fondly, and with a chaste kiss pressed to the younger man's cheek, before turning towards the stairs. "Right, well– I guess I should go see what little surprise you've left for me." 

Moriarty smiles as he watches the blond limp away towards his room where a new laptop awaits him, something the brunette hopes will buy him enough time to figure out where Seb is. Jim locks his study door behind him and brings up the CCTV footage grid on his laptop, scanning each screen carefully for any bodies or parts of bodies. He gapes a little when, quite surprisingly, he switches to a different camera and sees Sebastian; half conscious and obviously wounded, stumble through an alleyway. It would take one call and five minutes for a car to arrive at his position to bring him home. 

–

The world was sliding in and out of focus, as Sebastian Moran practically crawled his way through the alleyway only fifteen minutes from the safe house. His side burned fiercely, and he was losing too much blood. With a biting curse, Seb falls to his knees as his head spins in dizzy circles and his vision threatens to tunnel. But the mercenary grits his teeth, and wills himself forward, when he notices the sleek black car pulling closer to him. Sebastian knows it's one of Jim’s and he is thankful that he gets the chance to live another day; a feeling he remembers all too well, from days gone past, when he was similarly wounded and dying in an army tent in Afghanistan.

Moriarty paces impatiently next to his on-call doctor. Why the fuck is it taking so long? Finally Seb appears, being supported by Muscles and his coworker, Beef. They lead the wounded man to the bed and the doctor is immediately on him; checking the gaping wound in his side that looks like someone tried to cut him clear in half. "Sherlock?"

Sebastian nods, blearily trying to focus on his employer's face. "He...he foun' me in Trafalgar square." He wheezes out, finding it irritatingly difficult to speak. "Wouldn'tve...wouldn'tve gotten away if it weren't for the knife in my boot. Gave 'im a nasty gash across that pretty face, I did..."

A sick grin crosses Jim's face before it settles back into concern. "Did he say anything?"

Seb coughs wetly for a moment before replying, "He did say he was goin' to chop off my prick for touching his John...really, it was all just bloody pathetic."

"God you scared the shit out of me Seb, why the fuck didn't you call?!"

"Fucker threw my phone onto the tube tracks...smashed it to pieces."

Moriarty lets out a string of curses, but lets the doctor work in peace for a few minutes. When Sebastian looks less pale, he asks, "Did you get a location?"

"He's 20 miles west of Trafalgar, from what I wager..."

"This ends tonight. I’ll send a whole fucking flock of assassins! Sherlock Holmes will die!" Jim vows, a dark and unbridled rage rippling like liquid fire through his amber eyes. 

Before Moran can pass out from the pain, he grabs a hold of Jim's wrist and looks up at him- eyes deadly serious. "If somethin' happens to me Jim, leave. An' make sure that heartless bastard never gets his hands on our Johnny Boy again..."

"I intend to make sure he loses his hands. Slowly and painfully, one slice at a time." Jim assures his subordinate and friend, with a small smirk.

Before the darkness snatches Sebastian Moran into its embrace he murmurs, "Go get 'im Jim..."

With that, Moriarty storms out of the room so quickly that he doesn't notice John hiding behind the door, leaning heavily against the wall. 

–

John Watson watches his love charge away with heavy eyes, and an even heavier heart. In that infinitesimal moment, he knows what he has to do, to keep Jim and Seb safe; but his stomach turns at the mere thought of facing Sherlock. He takes a steadying breath, and stumbles to the door of the safe house. It's unlocked, but he has never opened it until this moment. It feels so wrong, and John doesn't want to go... but he pushes the door open and walks, albeit unsteadily, to the curb where the black car that brought Seb back here still waits. 

"Take me to Baker Street." John says firmly to the driver, who looks like he wants to say no, but just nods. Despite Seb's words, he knows Sherlock will be back at the flat. He can feel it in his soul, and it disgusts him that he can. 

–

Sherlock Holmes is prowling around 221b, smashing up the flat in a white hot rage! That fucking lapdog, he was more cunning than he gave him credit for...the scabbed over gash across his cheek a testament to that. And the detective was no closer to finding John...it made him want to find a pretty blond headed stranger, and sink his fingers into their skull- squelching and digging around until bright blue eyes lay in his bloody hands like lovely gems.

Walking into 221b is like walking to the electric chair, and John can hear Sherlock destroying things upstairs. Briefly he wonders what Mrs. Hudson thinks of all this, and if she's even alive, but then he is at the top of the stairs, and he sees Sherlock; with his back turned to him. Every atom in John Watson's body tells him to run and hide, but instead he clears his throat and speaks, "I like what you've done with the place. The blood looks good with the curtains."

Sherlock spins on his heels, not daring to believe what he is hearing- if this is just another hallucination caused by drugs and stress. But there, standing willingly in the doorway is John Watson, and Sherlock smiles. "Oh John," his voice is light, a little cajoling, "I see you've finally come home, where you belong." He cocks his head to the side then. "Did you have fun, playing house with Jim? Playing the pathetic little victim...?"

"Yes, I did as a matter of fact. He's really an interesting man, once you get to know him. The things he does with his mouth...I never would have believed it if I didn't know, ya know?"

A dark hatred flickers across Sherlock's face, to accompany the cold sneer. "I see I'll have to instill manners in you once again, John. You've become rather naughty, in the company of those pathetic excuses for mad men." He stalks forward, a lingering promise of pain written all over his countenance. "Perhaps I shall fit you with a nice leather collar, and make you beg for scraps of food after a week of starvation? I’ve always wanted another dog John, ever since I was a little boy."

"I wouldn't make a good dog, I’d snap at your heels as you walked by. Now a cat on the other hand-"

"Stop mouthing back John." Sherlock growls, before he stops right before the blond, looming down and leveling him with a dangerous glare. "I have sewing needles and fishing wire in the kitchen right now, and I have no qualms wiring that pretty mouth shut."

"Once upon a time that would have disgusted me. But I’ve gotten used to being disgusted with you."

Quicker than a flash, Sherlock's slender fingers grab a hold of either side of John's face and he squeezes tightly. "Don't get conceited, my little bitch! Don't forget, I OWN YOU!" His sharp fingernails dig in, making blood pool around them as he snarls like a feral animal.

John keeps a remarkably straight face, even leaning in further. "Jim...owns me."

Pulling one hand away, the detective slaps the blond good and hard across the face, reveling in the sound of his teeth clattering in his skull. "Jim only borrowed you for a short time, though I will still make him pay in blood and screams for touching my things."

"You'll never touch Jim, you're not even smart enough to find him, let alone beat him!"

Sherlock's face contorts into a wide, and wicked smile. "Oh John, don't be so naïve...how else do you think Moriarty's little lapdog escaped? Even with his surprise present, I was in complete control of the situation. He led me right back to their little nest, and I was going to send my new friends to retrieve you, but you went ahead and saved me the trouble."

John sneers at the taller man. "You're bluffing."

"Oh John, go ahead and believe that...but when I have his severed head to give you as a present, you'll lose all this useless bravado." Sherlock's hands slither down John's face, and grips his neck firmly, pulling the man forwards. "Now, it's been too long since the last time I’ve had release. Shall we rectify that, pet?"

"Before we do...there's just one thing."

"Yes?" Sherlock looks at the blond, for once completely thrown by his behavior.

"You're pathetic, Sherlock."

The detective sighs and shakes his head. "Let's stop rehashing old plot points Watson, it's getting old..." His hands tighten around John's sturdy neck, and he yanks the older man along with him, towards his old bedroom.

"Not your room this time? You're branching out Sherlock."

"I want you to see what I’ve done with your room, pet." Sherlock whispers, his tone almost loving in its saccharine sweet quality. They reach John's door, and using one hand Sherlock wrenches it open. "I hope it pleases you..." his gaze sweeps indifferently across all the blood smeared across the walls, the hundreds of pairs of blue eyes sitting upon the doctor's dresser, staring at them accusingly.

"It is quite a sight." John can't help but smirk, knowing his candid behavior is driving the detective crazy. "Get it? Sight? Cuz of the eyeballs..."

Sherlock tries not to show how irritated he is by Watson's new found courage in the face of such horrible things. "I see you've grown up John. Jim must have made a wonderful mommy, happily nurturing his new little psychopath."

"Hmm...I don't believe that's strictly the correct comparison to make, since he was the one who was doing the suckling. Ya know what I mean."

Sherlock's eyes flash darkly, and he shoves the older man forward, watching him sprawl pathetically across the edge of his bed. "I'll have to break those legs of yours again, that way you can depend on only me to do anything! Like a new born babe, weak and needy. And I’ll take care of you John, even if I don't have to. I’ll nurture you back to health and you will learn to worship me; loving and merciful god that I will be in your eyes."

"Oh great god Sherlock! Please bless me by taking your head out of your arse!"

Stalking over, Sherlock fists his hands into the back of John's short blond hair, and shoves his face mercilessly into the mattress. "Keep this up John, and I will show you true pain. Not just physical, but emotional pain...I've kept Mrs. Hudson alive so far merely for a bargaining chip, but I will kill her if that's what it takes to silence that fuckable mouth of yours."

John hesitates for all of a moment, before deciding that the mad detective won't kill anyone until he has fucked him. And hopefully, Jim will realize where they are before Sherlock's even finished with that. Still, John knows he should probably at least try to defuse the man's willingness to kill the sweetest old woman he's ever met. "Come on Sherlock, I’ve always been the comedic relief. I'm just entertaining a different audience now."

"Well John, there's nothing funny about what I'm going to do to you. So keep your cheek and sass while you can, because pretty soon all you will know is pain and despair." He punctuates each syllable with a forceful press of the blond's face into the mattress.

John has the gall to chuckle. "God you sound like a total wanker! I mean, you're threatening me, and I get that, but you sound so fucking ridiculous!" The doctor laughs through his words, not even wincing when Sherlock's grip tightens even more.

Sherlock's grip tightens in John's hair, and he lifts the blond's head up before slamming it back down as hard as he can. He hears the crunching sound of the older man's nose breaking, and watches in avid fascination as blood drips down his nose, to paint his pretty lips bright red- like the little whore John is. And Sherlock tells him such, loving the dirty feeling of calling the man his own personal slut.

John smirks at him. "I'll be expecting payment then, if I'm your whore. Do you have singles?" Smiling at the never ending amount of sass coming from Watson's mouth, Sherlock decides to lean in and silence him once and for all. Pulling his head back and up, the raven haired man smothers John's mouth with his own- licking up all the wonderfully beautiful blood that dribbled across his lips, before thrusting his tongue down the man's throat

John gags a little, between the blood and the bile (because the thought of kissing Sherlock makes him feel sick) it gets hard to breathe for a moment. But then he steels his nerves, and bites down on the detective's tongue until he is bleeding too. Sherlock smirks against his lips, knowing that this petty attempt was meant to force him to pull away, but really it just excites him further as their blood mixes together so intimately. He bites at John's lips, chewing them into a bloody mess because he can, and because he loves the pinched expression of pain on the blond's face. After a few moments, Sherlock pulls back and sighs with ecstasy. 

"Look John, how beautifully our blood mingles together, so bright and lovely." He swipes a finger across his lips, gathering the droplets that cling there, and presses it into Watson's mouth so he can taste it. "And if you bite again John, I will twist that crooked nose even further out of shape."

He spits a mouthful of blood at Sherlock, staining his white shirt, and growls out, "Thank you sir, may I have some more?"

The detective stares listlessly at the glob of spit and blood staining his crisp, white shirt and sighs. "Oh John...this is starting to bore me. I preferred it much more when you were begging for me not to fuck you, and screaming in pain. It was such wonderful music to my ears, the sound still gets me rock hard when I think of it..."

"Well you know, life's not fair, or something like that."

"No, life isn't fair. I learned that when that fucker Moriarty came traipsing into my house, and took you from me. He put his filthy hands all over my toy, and turned it into something I am finding I do not like..."

"I feel so distressed to know I'm not pleasing you. Really, I'm heartbroken."

"Just. Shut. Up! I am growing so very weary of this John. You should be very careful...I might decide that I don't want you anymore." Sherlock smiles, and looks thoughtful. "In fact, I think you'd be much more pleasing as the cold and lifeless doll I am desiring as of late..."

"Going to have me stuffed then? Or maybe just freeze my corpse? I know how much you like to keep body parts in the fridge..."

"I was thinking more along the lines of dismembered, and given to your parents as a wonderful Christmas present." Sherlock growls fiercely, hoping that playing to John's sympathetic and loving nature would instill some obedience in him. "Imagine their faces John, when they unwrap the bloody little bits of your body. Your mother will scream and cry while your father stays strong to keep from going half mad with grief."

"Sherlock...did I forget to tell you that my parents are dead? In any case, just do what you need to do." He feigns disinterest, even letting all the tension drain from his body.

The younger man's brows furrow. "Why are you being so PASSIVE?" He screams in John's face, grabbing it and making him look directly in his eyes. "I want fear! I want screams! I want you to beg until your throat gives out, and bleeds from the stress!"

"And I want my best friend back!! I guess neither of us gets what we want!!" John screams back, "How could you become like this?! How could you fucking let yourself be like this?!" 

Sherlock's expression hardens, because that was the one thing he hated most about this...the fact that John Watson was once hanging onto his every word, and following him around like a lost puppy. And now the older man doesn't even try to act like he cares about him...even with this twisted thing the detective has become. "Because I grew tired of denying myself, the pleasures in life. I grew bored. Now, when there's no puzzle to solve, I kill someone. When I need to have a good fuck, I take what I want and dispose of the people who look down on me like I'm a freak. I grew tired of playing the good guy John, so fucking tired of pretending like I did not lust after you every waking moment of every day. It's so much easier this way, when I have no doubts or reservations anymore."

"There's just one thing Sherlock..."

"And what is that?" He asks coolly.

"You might have my body, but you'll never have my heart or soul. They'll always belong to Jim Moriarty, and won't that just drive you crazy?"

Sherlock scoffs, and leans in to place a well placed bite against John's neck. "I don't need your heart and soul, because I don't love you. I just need your body, and to own your obedience and loyalty."

"Loyalty?" John scoffs in return, "Like I’d give you my loyalty after all you've done. The only reason I'm here right now Sherlock, is to protect the man I am loyal to."

"ENOUGH!!!" Sherlock screams, and wraps his hands around the blond's neck, crushing his windpipe with as much force as he can muster. "I am growing so very tired of this tirade! I will fuck you, then I will drag Moriarty’s broken body before you, fuck him too and then kill him as brutally as possible. Then I’ll kill you, and be done with this whole tiresome situation!"

John chokes, and struggles to even pull in enough air to force out a sentence, but finally gasps out five words, "Then...just...fucking...do...it..."

"Very well John," he murmurs against the man's skin, "but remember, you have asked for this pain."

The detective's grip loosens a little, and John can choke out more words. "I just want it to be done... Fuck, there must be an end...eventually..."

Sherlock's hands, shaking a little in anger, travel south and rip open the blond's pale blue button up shirt- shiny grey buttons flying every which way in the process. He takes in the man's lightly tanned skin, pleased that the fucker Moriarty has not left claiming marks upon it. Sherlock grows bored of Watson's lack of reaction quickly, and so he bends down and takes one of his puffy nipples into his mouth and bites hard enough to break the skin; sinking his teeth into the flesh there. John tries valiantly not to cry out, but as Sherlock's teeth keep sinking in further, a strangled cry finally tears through the cage of his lips. "That's it John, scream for me..." he moans out, lapping up the salty tang of blood that he has become addicted to.

"You sick fuck!" John snarls, pushing the lanky man away. "You better fucking tie me up, or I swear I’ll break your neck!"

Sherlock's teeth clatter a bit at the unexpected force of the doctor's push, and he glares down murderously at him. "Oh, that can be arranged, my little whore!" All the white hot anger he feels is dripping like candle wax from his tone, a burning fury racing through his veins like heroin. Sherlock quickly grabs a hold of John's wrists, and pins them down, leaning in and biting the tip of his broken and bloody nose.

John curses, but keeps most of what he wants to say and how he feels, hidden. "I hope I'm there when Jim kills you! I hope I get to stare into your eyes when they lose all life!"

"You have such blind faith in your little fucktoy, don't you? It's almost precious, the way you cling to him like a life line." Sherlock drawls, placing sharp teethed nips here and there along John's face. "You do realize he's a cold blooded killer, just like me. When he grows bored of borrowing my toy, he'll dispose of you like all the others...but I won't give him the chance to. You're mine, ALL MINE, and James Moriarty will never lay a single finger on your pretty little head, ever again."

The blond closes his stormy blue eyes, and clenches his jaw at Sherlock's words. He shouldn't let them affect him. He has faith in Jim. Complete faith. Jim loves him. But despite all of this, John has always had his doubts about him, the whole time. He has always wondered if it was really love, or just a complex cat and mouse game. Was he ever really something to the Consulting Criminal, or was it always just to get to Sherlock?

Sherlock begins to laugh then, cold and full of wicked glee. "Oh yes, this IS far too precious!! You really do have your doubts about him, because you know me, and really Jim and I are one in the same. Didn't he always say so? So really the question is..." he leans down, and ruts his hips into John's, dragging his hard cock along the man's thighs ever so slowly. "If you're willing to trade one monster, for the other?"

He doesn't deign the detective with a response, just clenches his fists tighter.

"See, he doesn't really love you John, no matter how many pretty words he whispered in your ears while he fucked your pain away. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here...he wouldn't have let you come and be the sacrificial lamb, so he could escape and forget all about sad. Pathetic. Weak. John. Watson..."

Against his will, a sob falls from John's lips. "You're lying! That's not true!"

"Oh John," he whispers, patronizing the man like a child. "But you should remember, I don't lie to spare other people's feelings. James Moriarty will only ever love death. Destruction. Murder. Mayhem... he may fancy relieving his tedium on you, but he does not love you, no more than I do. You are a possession to us, nothing more." And with that, Sherlock releases John's wrists long enough to bind them with the cotton bed sheets.

A strange numbness falls over John, and he just stares at his former friend for a long moment. "Just a possession. Never anything more," he murmurs, though he's not quite sure if it's a question or a statement. Jim said he loved him, and he believed it. But...why would he love John? He was damaged goods, and always would be. All of it, all the love and longing...maybe it was all just to fuck with Sherlock after all. And he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

"There you go Johnny." Sherlock smirks, loving the taste of Moriarty’s pet name for the blond on his tongue. "Finally seeing the bigger picture here, though you were never the brightest star in the sky...rather dim actually." He smiles, like the cat that got the cream and snakes his hands towards John's trousers and tugs them down. "Now, won't it be easier for you to stay with me, and be a good little pet? If you obey, I won't have to hurt you...and things can go back to normal. Well...instead of solving the crimes, we'll be causing them...but I digress."

"Normal..." John's tone is wistful, "We used to be friends Sherlock...I used to love you even... None of it matters anymore." The exhaustion and longing for peace, for death, that he thought was gone seems to come back full force all at once. And John Watson just...doesn't care anymore.

An anger wells up in the taller man, hot and unbridled and he can't control it. Apathy. It was such a familiar emotion to him, one he once took solace in before he let feelings, and urges control his life.Sherlock raises his hand, and strikes John hard across the face, practically snarling, "You stop that!! Fear. Anger. Hatred. Give me anything but this!" He slaps his hand across the blond's face again, leaving his cheek bright red, and tossing his head to the side this time. "Don't you dare beg for death, don't you dare shut out the pain!"

"Can you really blame me?" John whispers, his voice tired and a complete contrast to his previous emotions. The entire time they were friends, this is what Sherlock wanted. He just wanted John to be some fucktoy that he could abuse. It was all a lie. And the love he felt for Jim, not to mention the love he felt for Sherlock, it never mattered. Because neither of them loved him and they never will. It was all a lie.

"FINE!" Sherlock's voice grows cold, detached. "You want to play the weak, pathetic victim be my guest." He shrugs, looking at John like he is nothing more than a mere annoyance. "Go ahead, feign apathy all you want John- but focus on the pain...it'll help blot out all those other troublesome thoughts for a time." Without preamble, he undoes his trousers and slides his hard cock out. Sherlock's wrist flicks a few times, pulling at his stiff dick and hissing at the pleasure of seeing John beneath him; completely at his mercy. "Remember to scream John, it makes it so much more enjoyable for me when you do."

"I'm sure I will Sherlock. I'm sorry I'm disappointing you..."

Sherlock's hands regrettably let go of his aching need, but they travel over to the blond's pale thighs, digging into the fleshy skin and leaving bright red wells of blood pooling from the crescent shaped marks. He wrenches John's legs open further, and then shuffles forward- his cock head leaking, and pressed firmly against the man's entrance. He grabs a hold of himself, and without a single moment for John to relax, he thrusts in; reveling in the feeling of the man's walls tearing, and coating him in the slippery slickness of blood. "Oh John..." Sherlock moans, and if it were under any other circumstance, his tone could be considered passionate or loving. "So tight...I see Jim hasn't had a taste of this yet..." he smiles widely at that, as his chest wells with the possession of it all. "Only me...always me."

A scream tears from John's lips and he arches, his wrists pulling uselessly at the bed sheets Sherlock bound them with. "Sherlock, please! Please can you wait! Just for a moment!" He doesn't want to beg, hates himself even more for doing it... but it just HURTS so. Fucking. MUCH. 

The lanky man's head lolls back, and his eyes flutter shut in pure ecstasy. He smiles, thrusting his hips languidly into John's tight heat, the blood making it all the hotter, and so easy to slip in and out of his hole. "Oh...scream more John. Let the heavens and hell hear the things I do with your body- how I make you cry out!" Sherlock pulls back, and snaps forward again, faster this time, and moans long and low in his throat.

John can't even hear the man moan over his screams of pain, and once it fades, it's quickly replaced by more pleading. "Sherlock p-please, it hurts..."

As his hips pick up speed and force, Sherlock slumps forward, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Watson's neck and breathes him in. The smells, the sounds, the heat...it's all so much, and yet not enough. He growls, not able to understand what is MISSING?! What more could there be....? Sensing Sherlock's frustration even through his pain, John Watson banishes his pride in the hope of ending this painful experience quicker... he leans his face towards the pale face looming above him and, catching Sherlock by surprise, kisses him.

The detectives stiffens. The warm, hot press of chapped lips, with blood caked and dried across them makes his head spin. Sherlock's face crumples into a confused frown. This...this wasn't what he wanted but- there was no denying the way his cock twitched at the feeling of being kissed. And then, his mouth is moving- hot and needy and desperately seeking the answers to all of these questions burrowing their way inside his head.

John braces himself for the pain he is sure will come from his next action, and raise his hips to meet Sherlock's with his next thrust. It hurts, oh god how it hurts, but he knows it's making a difference for the other man. A choked sob catches in Sherlock's throat, kept at bay because of the cage their joined lips created. There was something...so much more erotic when John's hips raise to meet his own. Giving the detective himself, instead of him just taking. 

Why was this better? Why did it make his thrusts slow down into gentle fucking, and his mouth slide slower against John's? Sherlock snakes his tongue out, begging at the blond's lips for entrance- hoping that the hot slide and slither can shut his brain off for just a moment, so he can bask in this pleasure.

"S-Sherlock...my hands..." John whispers against his unwanted lover's lips, before letting his tongue into his mouth.

A breathless moan filters into John's mouth, Sherlock's hands burying themselves gently into his downy soft hair. He rocks his hips so gently it almost makes something inside him ACHE. But soon he pulls away from the doctor's lips and murmurs, voice a raw husk of need that makes him want to punch John's face for making him feel this way. "I will not undo your hands...I know you John- the minute I do, you'll find your way out...and I'm not in the mood to struggle." He accentuates his last statement with a gentle roll of his hips.

"I-I won't...please Sherlock...they hurt..."

"If you so much as raise your hands to strike me, I will break your wrists..." he growls, leveling John with the hardest glare he can muster.

"I know...I believe you..."

"Good," Sherlock whispers darkly, before deftly undoing the knots of fabric around John's wrists. They are swollen and red, but this time aren't chaffed into bloody scabs as they fall limply to the man's sides. "Now remember, no misbehaving..."

John hesitantly reaches his now freed hands up and slides them under the raven haired man's thin shirt and over his chest. He feels sick, and every action he takes to try and please Sherlock just drives him closer to completely shutting down, but John wants this to be over. He wants the younger man to cum, and be happy when he does, so maybe he can have a moment of peace. With this in mind John gently flicks his thumb over Sherlock's pert nipple, praying that the detective will like his actions.

Dark fire crackles up and down Sherlock's spine the instant the blond's smooth, yet calloused fingers brush up and against his skin. The moment John's thumb flicks his nipple he cries out, hips snapping forward harshly because the sensation went straight to his cock. "Oh...John..." And then Sherlock gazes into John's eyes, and something in him cracks. A desperate need to make the older man cum, right along beside him. He wants to taint him, not just his body, but his heart, his soul, his mind. Sherlock Holmes wants it ALL! And so, his hands travel down, and lightly caresses John's flaccid dick, hoping it could bring him some form of pleasure.

"N-No Sherlock...I can't...just let me please you."

Sherlock looks up at John, and confusion is all he can feel- all he can bring himself to display. Because...it shouldn't be important! His pleasure, that's all that mattered- HIS. And yet... Sherlock wanted the blond to scream his name, and only his name. He wanted John to cum with him...why? "John why do I need this...?" Sherlock is asking himself more than he is asking the man strewn out below him, as his hips still their movement and he just lets himself BE inside of John.

The blond squirms uncomfortably, still not enjoying the feeling of Sherlock being inside of him, even if the man is staying still. "Sherlock...just ignore it...this is for you, your pleasure...remember?"

Eyebrows furrowing deeper, the detective nods, though it's a very distant gesture. His mind is taking control of him again, and he doesn't like it...it was so much better when he could blot the racing thoughts out with emotions and pleasure...this- this wasn't supposed to turn out like this, and it makes him ANGRY. But instead of hurting John, his hands cradle the blond's face and Sherlock stares into his stormy blue eyes as if they hold the answers to the universe. "I don't...I don't understand..."

John presses his eyes closed, trying to keep himself from crying; because for just a moment he sees the old Sherlock in the man's cyan eyes. "Please don't do this Sherlock...please just...just finish it already...I'll do whatever you ask, just..."

Sherlock's grip tightens so John can't move away as he leans down and kisses the blond man's lips again. His hips pick up a steady rhythm, moving in tandem with his mouth over John's and Sherlock shivers at how wonderful it all feels. When his head starts to buzz from lack of oxygen, he turns his face away, and pants in heavy gulps of air- practically mewling from the tight heat around his cock. "John...touch me..." It's not a command, but it's not a question either. Sherlock just wants John's hands in his hair, down the length of his spine, cupping his ass and pulling him deeper inside of him...

With shaking hands, John curls his fingers into Sherlock's greasy locks, while the other hand moves from his chest to the man's back. His physical pain is being overshadowed now by emotional pain, because John can't handle Sherlock acting this way. This is worse than before, so much worse, and the urge to cry is overwhelming. But he holds it back, and moves his hand down the detective's spine.

"Ah- yes!" Sherlock arches up into the feather light feeling of John's touch, fingers ghosting and creating hot trails along his skin. He stares down at the blond, and wants nothing more than for him to rut against him passionately, lost in a haze of pleasure. It's all wrong- somewhere, distantly the new little voice in Sherlock's head is screaming at him to hurt, to take, to bruise, and scar- but for now he squeezes his eyes shut and blots it out. Instead, he traces light circles upon John's cheekbones, and presses hot, searing kisses along his pale throat.

Unconsciously John digs his nails into Sherlock's skin, concentrating more on the burning pain shooting up his spine, than the man's loving gestures. Sherlock's thrusts become a bit more frenzied when John digs his blunt nails softly into his skin. The small added pain makes his cock throb, and now he is nipping heatedly against whatever skin he can find as he groans; voice deep and breathy. "John...I'm almost there- ah, mmm. You feel so fucking good John..."

He manages to keep a sharp sob from escaping at the last second, and tugs at Sherlock's hair; remembering vaguely about how he once found out the detective had sensitive hair during a case. He hopes maybe it'll be enough to get Sherlock to finish.

"Oh- John!" Sherlock's world blurs white the moment John tugs at his hair, and he is spilling his hot, burning seed deep into the man's body. Marking, claiming what will forever be his. Shuddering, the world slowly begins to slide back into focus, and Sherlock stares down at the blond with a sort of detached sense of euphoria. He smiles, feeling sated and...happy.

John shudders as Sherlock's seed fills him, his arms falling boneless to his sides. He closes his eyes softly, so the man looming above him can't see the pain and sorrow filling them. He doesn't want to piss Sherlock off now, after allowing his heart to shatter into a thousand pieces in order to get the detective off. 

"Look at me John! Sherlock growls threateningly.With a sniffle John does as he says, cracking his eyes open and trying to hide his emotions from Sherlock, just looking back at his cyan eyes numbly. "You are mine John!" Sherlock's voice is deep, but it isn't harsh or biting. "From now, until we die- you belong to me, do you understand?"

John takes a shuddering breath before he can reply, "Yes Sherlock."

And then, for the first time in so very long, a real smile cracks Sherlock's lips in half. "Good John." He pulls out slowly, watching all the blood and cum leak out of the blond's well used hole. With a devilish twinkle in his eyes, the raven haired man leans down and begins to lap it all up; loving the way John's entrance flutters, and the way he squirms against him. The metallic taste of blood mixing with the salty, bitter bite of his own ejaculate...it was rather intoxicating.

A surprised yelp escapes John's lips, followed by a single shaky sob before he clamps his mouth shut. He waits a few moments before his choked sobs are under control, then asks tentatively, "W-What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock drawls, voice low and rumbling against John's beaten and bruised skin. "I'm cleaning you up, for being such a good boy." With that he lifts up onto his elbows, and gives the older man a tiny smirk; his lips covered in blood and cum. Sherlock traces his tongue along the seam, and laps up what he can, before crawling back up to loom above the blond. "Why, do you want a taste?"

John cringes at just the thought, and shakes his head. "N-No...just surprised me...is all..."

Without asking, Sherlock comes crashing down, pressing his lips over John's and forcing his tongue between them to give the man a taste. The taste of blood and semen nearly makes John gag, and he curls his hands into tight fists at his sides. But he bears the detective's tongue, which is practically fucking his mouth, and waits patiently for Sherlock to tire of this newest power play.

Sherlock pulls apart from the blond's lips after a few minutes, the loudest most arousing slurping sound echoing in the near silence of the room. He smiles benignly, and then flops onto his side, reaching and wrapping his arms around John, so he can hold him close. "Now that, was far better than last time, don't you think so John? No bones broken, and no Moriarty here to ruin everything. It's almost, picturesque in a weird sort of way."

He represses a shudder, and closes his stormy blue eyes; trying to pretend he is somewhere, anywhere, else. "Yes Sherlock. Much better." John tries not to sound numb as he says it, but he is afraid it still sounds fake.

"Good..." Sherlock mumbles, drowsiness suddenly filling him, making his eyelids heavy and his thoughts fuzzy. He snuggles further into the delicious warmth John's body offers him, and his fingers curl possessively around the man's hip bones. "If you...if you try to escape...I'll find Jim, and kill him." He mumbles offhandedly, as his lids droop further. Sherlock barely hears the audible sound the blond makes, a panicked reply of obedience, before the dark void of sleep pulls him in.

John shakes in Sherlock's embrace for a long time before he can't keep his sobs in any longer; and he openly cries, big, hot tears pouring down his face and leaving trails in the blood and sweat on his skin. His heart aches in his chest, and more than anything, John wants to run away and find some small, dark place to curl up and die. He doesn't even want to go find Jim... he just wishes he could close his eyes, and never open them.


	8. Broken toy soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty and Mycroft have a little chat. Meanwhile, Sherlock finds a chink in John's armor, and exploits it.

The Thinning Line 

Chapter Eight: Broken toy soldier 

Pain. James Moriarty was going to inflict searing, mind numbing pain on Sherlock Holmes for what he did to Sebastian- and he was going to revel in every wonderful scream that shattered the detective's vocal chords. He wanted all of LONDON to hear the man shriek, begging him to make it end. But no, that's when the pain would increase...and it would leave Sherlock a gibbering pile of the man he used to be. Jim needed some form of comfort right now, he needed to hold John and whisper loving words into his skin until they sunk in, and became a part of him. It was all too surreal, that he had let himself fall for John Watson, but the consultant criminal was in no mood to agonize over the superfluous little details. 

Right now, he knew that he needed John, and John would probably need him. So, when Moriarty knocked on John's bedroom door, and didn't receive and answer, it made his irritation grow. He waited a few moments, before pounding louder and calling out, "John?" Still no answer came. Gritting his teeth, Jim opened the door forcefully, expecting to see his darling little doctor sprawled across his bed asleep, or absorbed in his new laptop. 

The instant darkness greeted him, Moriarty flipped on the light switch and then his stomach fell out, and hit the floor from the weight of dread that filled it. John wasn't there...no trace of him in his room, and he never went anywhere without Moran or him in case he fell. It didn't take the mad genius long to figure it out though...something happened, most likely he caught sight of Sebastian, bloody and near death. And now the anger was back. Throwing his arm out blindly, Jim smashed the beside lamp against the wall and toppled the table over for good measure. 

That self sacrificial...but Jim couldn't complete that train of thought, because he knew where it led. It led to Sherlock Holmes, and how he was probably torturing his Johnny Boy within an inch of his life. Sighing heavily, Moriarty collected himself, and whipped out his phone. It was time to finally take matters into his own hands, and by the end of the night, a certain Holmes brother would be paying James Moriarty in blood. 

— 

Mycroft Holmes is shocked to hear his phone ring at this particular moment, especially once he see's the number; but he knows he has to take this call, so he dismisses himself from the meeting currently under way, and steps out into the hall. After taking a deep breath, Mycroft accepts the call and sighs out heavily, "Moriarty."

"Hello Mycroft." Jim's tone is rather light, despite the raging maelstrom of emotions roiling inside of him at the moment. "I need you to do me a little favor, and you are going to do it for me- so no trying to wheedle your way out of it, otherwise I'm going to get VERY angry. And you know what happens when I get mad. People die, cities burn." Moriarty shrugs, and smiles a bit, because he knows talking so candidly about these things always makes Mycroft feel uncomfortable.

Said Holmes brother grits his teeth, and takes another calming breath before he can reply. "What...kind of favor?"

"I need you to gather as many able bodied men as you can, to take down your dear little brother." And even if his tone was casual, and lilting in that sing song way he always loved to speak, there was a darkness underlying it that didn't bode well for anyone who dared to cross James Moriarty.

"And why...would I do that? Sherlock may be...difficult these days, but I was under the impression that was your doing in the first place."

Jim holds back a snarl that almost betrays his mask of cool indifference, and control; but his fingers are clenching his phone so hard, he could almost feel the flat screen cracking under the pressure. "I know you have the full story of what happened to John Watson, but I'm going to relay it to you in agonizing detail. First he was knocked unconscious, and handcuffed to Sherlock's bed. He awoke, frightened and scared like a little Bunny caught in a foxhole, and what does your brother decide to do? He smashes his knees in, and brutally rapes him! 

"I saved John, brought him somewhere safe- I nursed him back to health." Here Jim has to stop, and for once his mask has slipped, because he is shaking now, and he knows Mycroft can hear it in his voice. "He was just starting to walk again...I even got him to smile." And the heartbreaking beauty of that smile makes Jim's chest ache fiercely, and helps fan the blazing embers of his fury- "And then he went and did something incredibly stupid, because he saw Moran almost fatally wounded because of your brother. So you're going to do what I say, or John Watson's blood is on your hands."

Mycroft is silent for the longest of moments, debating between what he knows is the morally right decision, and his hope of saving his brother. Unfortunately, it's becoming increasingly clear that Sherlock has no interest in ever being saved. Even still, Mycroft can't just hand him over to the Consulting Criminal to be tortured to death- Mummy would never forgive him. 

"Very well Moriarty, I’ll help you. But I get Sherlock, that is my price and I will accept nothing less. I’ll even let you have John again. You care for him, that is evident enough, and he'll need that. But I need Sherlock alive. Do you accept my terms?"

Moriarty whines a bit, not able to get rid of the petulant pout on his face. "Oh, but that takes the fun out of everything! Can't you just let me play with him for a few minutes? I promise he'll leave with everything still...intact, for the most part." 

His voice deepens suddenly, an angry hush full of deadly promises, "He only has to pay me in a few screams, and lots of blood. But even if that's not negotiable, John WILL be given back to me...after all, I put all the work into fixing him, I deserve to keep him."

"And if he doesn't want you Moriarty? We both know Sherlock will plant doubt in John's head, he probably already has. Would you be willing to give John up if it was what he wanted?"

Jim pauses for a moment, letting Mycroft's words sink in. His brow furrows, and he twists his face away from the phone's speaker so the elder Holmes can't hear his sudden increase in breath rate. 

"No...if John didn't want me after this, if Sherlock poisoned his mind against me, I would simply make it right again." Patience was never the Irishman's strongest suit, but for John...he could wait 'til the end of the world. "Don't play mind games with me Mycroft, unlike your brother, I don't chomp on the bait so easily." He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, as if he was chastising a particularly naughty and dense child.

"Of course, my mistake. I will help you get John back, and if I happen to be late getting there to pick up Sherlock, I can't be blamed for your actions. But you will leave him alive, and intact. Do we have a deal?"

Moriarty's eyes widen in surprise, and he sends a silent thank you to the cosmos that Mycroft can't see his face. "Well Mycroft, as much as I fantasize each and every day about putting a bullet or thirty into the middle of your smarmy face, I will admit, you drive a hard bargain." Jim's smile widens impossibly, because he is already imagining all of the things that he can do to Sherlock if Mycroft's men don't arrive on time. "We have a deal." 

Before the uppity twat can lay down any more terms and conditions, Jim clicks the 'end call' button. He may have asked for his help, but there was no way in hell that Mycroft Holmes could get the world's only Consulting Criminal to dance in the palm of his hand. A few seconds pass, and then he is laughing like a little kid, loud and unabashed. This was going to be so much fun! Moriarty wheels around, a slight pep in his step as he makes his way to the carport, happily whistling 'Everybody Wants to Rule the World.'

 

Mycroft heaves a heavy sigh and puts his phone back in his pocket, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. If mummy knew what he had just agreed to...dear lord, heads would fly. But he owed it to John, and regrettably enough, Mycroft finds that he agrees with Moriarty. Sherlock does need to pay for what he's done, and Moriarty needs to take vengeance for John. 

Dear lord, he didn't even want to think about what Sherlock was doing to John, even in the few minutes he's had him back in his clutches. Mycroft doesn't think he has ever felt worse for a person, except maybe mother if she ever found out what her youngest son has become. In any case, there's no time to delay. John is in serious danger and Moriarty is not exactly a patient person. With a resolute nod, Mycroft Holmes starts walking, debating who to send in. 

—

There was something oddly...calming about watching John Watson sleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest was a perfect pantomime of who he was as a person. He was steadfast, loyal, brave- it just made you feel secure, and protected and well...it was odd that after all this time, this is what Sherlock was enjoying the most. Watching him sleep, face only slightly pinched in pain as he dreamed, probably something horrible...probably something about him. There were two sides of Sherlock Holmes, warring for dominion over his thoughts and actions. 

The cold, rational side that said this was WRONG and the hot, unpredictable side that wanted to slap John awake, and start round two no matter how much he begged and pleaded for it all to end. Why...did it turn out like this? It was as if a switch had been turned on in his head, and it made him act upon animal impulses that he never gave credence to before. The worst part of it all though, was the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the man who saved lives and secretly held the weight of the world upon his shoulders because he DID care too damn much...he was coming back. Shoving the new Sherlock aside, and kicking him in the ribs for good measure. 

He couldn't let that happen though... because if Old Sherlock came back, he wouldn't be able to handle the things he had done to John. He would probably kill himself, for all the guilt he would feel. So the new Sherlock had to pull himself up off the ground, and knock the shit out of the old...self preservation, and all that. So with a concerted effort, he locked up the swelling affection in his chest when John's breathtaking blue eyes slowly fluttered open.

John can't help but cringe as he opens his eyes to see the same blood painted walls, and eyeballs that he had fallen asleep to. For the briefest of moments he had hoped...hoped beyond hope, that he would wake up somewhere white, and warm. John didn't really believe in heaven, but there had to be something waiting, after death. But even if there wasn't...well, he didn't think he would mind that so much. Instead of a possible afterlife though, he was still in 221b. Still aching, and in pain- and suffering from the worst broken heart he could ever imagine. 

He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but he's not ready to look at the other man yet. John keeps his eyes on the disgusting sight the blood makes against the brown wallpaper, wanting to close his eyes and see if Sherlock will let him pretend for just a while longer. He doesn't close his eyes though, because in the end he knows he would never be allowed even that small of a mercy. 

A smile lifts the edges of Sherlock's placid lips, before he leans in and places a wet kiss upon the hollow of John's throat and murmurs, "Morning, John."

The blond shivers and closes his eyes to quietly summon strength, before opening them again. "Good morning," He whispers, his voice clearly showing the strain from all his screaming last night.

Sherlock's smile widens, and he reaches up to card lazily through John's sex tussled hair. "I enjoyed last night..." His voice dips lower, becoming sultry and smooth. "I was hoping after a little breakfast, maybe a shower, we could pick back up where we left off?" 

He walks his long, slender fingers up the expanse of John's chest playfully, and ends the journey by splaying his hand upon the contours of the doctor's rough jaw, the sparse stubble tickling his fingertips pleasantly.

Watson sends a little thank you to whatever god there is that he has nothing in his stomach; otherwise he would probably be sick. As it is, bile is burning the back of his throat, and he doesn't trust himself to talk without heaving it everywhere, so instead he just nods absently. 

Sherlock's lazy smile falters, because if anything annoys him, it is unresponsiveness- the feeling of being ignored, and looked over like he didn't exist. He grabs John's face roughly and forces the blond to face him directly as he whispers heatedly, "Do NOT ignore me John, I don't like it and you know that!"

John's brain lights up with fear, and he hurries to stutter the first thing that comes to his mind, "Y-Your cheek... needs stitches!"

The detective's grip loosens, and he looks at the doctor confused for a moment, before Sherlock remembers his little run-in with Moriarty’s lapdog. "It's not important..." He mumbles, looking away because John's concern makes him want to kiss him and hold him close- and he needed to bury old Sherlock 6 feet under, and those thoughts aren't helping matters any.

Swallowing heavily, John nods stiffly- not wanting to upset Sherlock even further. "Of course. I'm sorry." 

"Besides... " Sherlock really means to only say this in his head, but the words come tumbling out anyway, faint and sort of detached. "Can't really stitch up my own face can I? Need a doctor to do it..."

Of course John doesn't want to help his former friend and flat mate, not one bit- but, he also doesn't want him to be in a bad mood. John has already seen how that can prove fatal, and he doesn't want Mrs. Hudson or Seb, or Jim to get hurt because he put Sherlock in a bad mood. "Do you...want me to do it?"

John's offer catches him off guard, and Sherlock eyes the blond suspiciously for a moment. There are so many things that John could do to him, if the detective gave him a needle and some thread... poke my eyes out is the biggest red flag raised in Sherlock's mind. He knows John is merely trying to placate him, stay on his good side so he doesn't inflict any more pain on him- those are all the thoughts of New Sherlock. Old Sherlock is smiling on the inside, and wanting nothing more than John's strong, confident hands patching him up, and when they are done they could share lazy kisses, and bask in the glow of companionship. But New Sherlock had to win- there was no questioning that. 

"No, I can have someone take a look at it later." Sherlock mumbles, eyes narrowing slightly to gauge John's reaction to his words. John nods obediently, and sets his gaze back on the wall, waiting for Sherlock to decide when he wants him to talk again.

Sighing heavily through his nose, the brunet tries to reign in his irritation towards John's lack of response. Sherlock flounders around for something to talk about, because as the minutes stretch on in silence it only heightens his annoyance- and he was feeling too drained, physically and emotionally right now to deal with it. "Are you hungry?" He finally asks, because he can't think of anything better to say.

"No." Watson replies immediately, because even if he was hungry, he wouldn't want anything Sherlock had to give him. John is the furthest thing from hungry anyway, but when he sees the detective's eyes darken from his blunt rejection, he can't decide if his lack of appetite is a blessing or a curse. Either way though, he knew that he had to appease Sherlock. "I’ll get sick if I eat right now. But thank you...for offering." It's hard for him to force the words of gratitude out, and even harder to make them sound authentic, but John thinks he manages it.

"Fine, no matter..." Sherlock picks at a loose thread on one of his bed sheets disinterestedly. Showing a cool, calm mask might get John to bring his guard down, so he keeps it in place while wracking his brain desperately for something else to say.

John watches the painful spectacle of Sherlock Holmes struggling for something to say with mild amusement, and before he can really think of a good thing to say, the second thought that came readily to his mind spills out of his mouth, "When was the last time you had a shower?"

Sherlock was so lost in his own thoughts that John's voice startles him a bit, but it's his question, another one filled with concern for his well being, that throws him for a loop. He stares at John, a little baffled and not afraid to show it, because he just can't figure him out right now... 

"Almost a week," Sherlock shrugs, not seeing how it's important.

"Your hair is greasy. And your cheek will get infected if you don't at least clean it." Even now, in this nightmare of a situation, John H. Watson feels his doctor instincts coming to the surface, wanting to fix injuries automatically, even Sherlock's. In a way it's a defense mechanism, something to distract himself with. Something to focus on, other than his pain and sorrow.

Sherlock considers John's words, weighing them heavily. On the one hand, his logic is utterly sound, and a nice hot shower sounds close to heavenly. On the other, the blond could be trying to lure him into a false sense of security- use the time that he is incapacitated to run, or take him unawares and bash his skull in against the tiled wall... "Do you think I'm a fool?" Sherlock drawls, and looks at John like he is an idiot. 

"I know what you're playing at, though I do suppose that I could get the handcuffs again...make sure you don't try and slip away." Then a wonderful thought hits the genius, and he smiles because of it. Images of the previous night, John's hands buried in his greasy hair and how GOOD it felt...yes, add the steam and shampoo to the mix and now it sounded so appealing. "Or on second thought, I’ll make you join me...you can even wash my belly, and scrub my back- doesn't a nice hot shower sound lovely, John?"

Watson grits his teeth, and for a moment he considers talking back to Sherlock. He would rather stay chained up in this disgusting room for hours then join him in a bath; but if he reacts, it'll just make the detective's resolve stronger. John doesn't even realize how long he has been silent until Sherlock growls lightly. "If you want," he grits between his teeth, forcing himself to submit to Sherlock's will even when he would like nothing more than to snarl, and tell him exactly how repulsive the man is to him.

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaims, choosing to ignore John's willful disgust, and instead focus on his obedience- thrilling in his little pet jumping through all the fiery little hoops, and following his every command. Sherlock grabs John's wrist forcefully, and hauls him up so he can follow him to the bathroom. John's very first step sends him to the ground, as his knees buckle beneath him. His spine is being scorched with flames of pain, and the still weak bones in his knees twinge horribly, effectively grounding him.

Sherlock wants nothing more than to roll his eyes, and kick John in the side while he's down for all the irritation his body's weakness brings him; but, that would just land him with having to nurse the blond back to health before he can fuck him again...and that sounded too tedious. So instead, Sherlock crouches down, and lifts John up into his arms; shaking slightly because of his weight, but able to stand firm and carry him towards the bathroom.

"I-I can walk, just have to go slow." John defends himself weakly, but he doen't try to squirm from Sherlock's surprisingly strong arms. Instead he focuses on controlling the emotions that want to bubble up inside of him. Sherlock doesn't like his apathy, but it's the only thing keeping his mind going at the moment. If he starts feeling, or even thinking for too long, he knows he won't survive. If John doesn't try to kill him, then he will definitely try to kill himself.

"I don't mind carrying you, John. We'll get there faster this way." The detective reasons, using the 'Sherlock Holmes' voice that always spewed forth the simplest logic everyone else failed to grasp.

John's throat tightens upon hearing that voice, and he wants to cry again. The familiarity of it just hurts, too much. But he reminds himself forcefully in his head that Sherlock Holmes is gone. And this thing that's here instead will never let him come back. He's just doing this, reminding him of what is lost, to hurt him more. And damn it all, it was working.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock is in front of the bathroom door, and is nudging it open with his hip. He walks over to the toilet, and uses his foot (balancing quite precariously) to close the lid, before setting John down gingerly upon it. Without preamble Sherlock begins to shed what little is left of his clothes, and he levels John with a hard stare. "No funny business while my back is turned." He warns, voice dry and devoid of the humor that should be there.

John nods obediently, rubbing idly at the ache in his knees, while also trying to send his mind far away. It will make things easier if he doesn't have to think, and experience this as it happens. But he does still need to be conscious enough to do the things Sherlock says, so he can't go too far.

Sherlock gives John one last wary glare, before turning his back and heading over to the shower/tub. Since John's knees are still weak, he surmised that drawing a bath would be best, even if the quarters will be slightly cramped. He leans down, and twists at the faucet, and tests the water until he finds the right temperature- it's almost on the verge of scalding, but not quite, just how he liked his showers and baths. For good measure, and to maybe help relax the mood, Sherlock adds in some of that vanilla scented bubble stuff John was so fond of when he lived here. When the tub finally fills up, Sherlock turns back around, and gestures idly for John to get in first.

The smell of vanilla, which was once so soothing, seems to sting John's eyes now, because they're watering a bit even as he just sits waiting. When Sherlock gestures for him to get in, he hesitantly stands and, finding his knees to be more stable now, walks to the tub, and gently settles in the filling basin; leaving room for Sherlock as well. John closes his eyes, and takes a few calming breaths to make the watering of his eyes subside. They snap back open when he hears Sherlock getting in, the water rising as he settles his wiry, bony body into the tub. Seeing him naked now feels worse than being raped by him for some reason. 

At one point in time, John would have loved to be in this position with Sherlock. But now, it just stings and the chasm in his heart splinters wider.

Sherlock leans back, exhaling the most contented sigh the moment his flesh sinks into the pleasantly hot water. He hums his approval, and slowly inches his fingers towards John's sturdy calf; rubbing idle patterns into his skin as he basks in this luxurious moment. After a few minutes of silence, his skin starts to crawl and itch, because the room is too quiet...and so, to fill the silence with something, Sherlock cups his hands and dribbles soapy water all over the top of John's head, and smiles a bit at the sight of it. Rivulets of water cling to the blond's skin, making his eyelashes glisten, and accentuating the fullness of his lips; and it makes him shiver.

John represses his need to shrink away from Sherlock when he started touching him, and watches him carefully as the brunet gradually gets annoyed with the silence. He is honestly surprised when Sherlock dumps water on his head, but the automatic need to wipe the water away is stunted by the fear of angering him. He never knew what might set the detective off, so doing nothing might potentially be as bad as wiping the water away. John glances up at him, trying to judge what Sherlock wanted him to do without actually having to ask.

"Come on John," Sherlock chastises lightly, feeling a little relaxed and content with their position, even if John is doing nothing but staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights. "I'm not going to bathe you like a little child, as tempting as it is."

"What do you want me to do then?" John asks, though it pains him to lower himself so far as to plea for the man's instruction. As much as his pride is bitching at him for it, he knows it was the right question to ask, based off the way Sherlock's cyan eyes light up.

"Well, if you're just going to sit there like a bump on a log, perhaps you can be useful..." Sherlock watches John cringe slightly at his words, but quickly tries to hide it under his mask of apathy. Lounging back, the brunet presents him with his greasy, tangled mop of curls and simply says, "Be a dear and wash my hair John."

John lightly grits his teeth, to keep from snapping at Sherlock; and presses his lips shut. Instead, he reaches for the shampoo. "You need to wet it," John mutters through his teeth, just praying Sherlock won't get upset because of his hardly veiled frustration and disgust.

Sherlock sighs heavily, so tired of this constant battle John makes them fight...but, he is less inclined to use force right now to make the blond comply, because he is finally relaxed and warm against John's skin after so long wanting this. "Very well," he drawls, before Sherlock looks at John suspiciously. "No funny business while I'm under the water, understand?"

"Yes Sherlock." John replies, his voice empty of emotion once more. He could practically feel the detective's irritation after his slip up where he let his disgust show; so no emotion is probably the better road at this point.

Humming softly at John's compliance, Sherlock scoots back in the tub and submerges his head under water. His eyes are closed, blotting everything out and enveloping him in a blanket of darkness. He can't hear anything over the sloshing water, and his heart beat in his ears. It's a welcoming, and numb sort of oblivion almost akin to sleep or a drug induced stupor. Sherlock smiles, the warm water and the feeling of John's skin such a bittersweet comfort. 

He wants to see John's face though, and so he opens his eyes under water, and gazes up at him.

John has to keep his eyes on the wall, and the shampoo firmly clutched between his hands, in order to resist his overpowering urge to drown the mad genius.

After a few more moments, Sherlock's lungs begin to burn, so he emerges from the water- droplets cascading from his unruly curls, and carving paths down his skin. He shakes his head a bit, so the water won't fall into his eyes. John flinches back a little when the water droplets from Sherlock's hair scatters towards him, and his knuckles are white from the grip he has on the poor shampoo bottle.

After a moment of staring at John, all tense muscles and white knuckled rage, Sherlock sighs. "Glaring daggers at the wall and crushing the shampoo bottle, won't do anything but make you look stupid." He reasons, lounging back lazily. "Now, are you going to wash my hair or not?"

John wants to refuse. He wants to snarl at Sherlock and throw the surprisingly sturdy bottle at his face. But he begrudgingly uncaps the shampoo, and pours a good puddle of it into his hands.

Sherlock's answering smile is full of blatant satisfaction. He scoots back, and drapes his body against John's; his back pressed into the doctor's broad chest. Sherlock wants to lull his neck lazily over one of John's shoulders, but that would completely defeat the purpose, so he stays still and waits for the older man's fingers to sink into his curly hair.

John's skin crawls in disgust, but he reluctantly starts working the shampoo into the mess of Sherlock's hair. Slowly, tangles come loose and his greasy hair starts to feel less oily between John's fingers. Small consolation.

"Hm...that's nice." Sherlock groans, his eyes fluttering shut from the calming feeling of gentle fingers carding through his hair.

Of course John wants to strangle him. Brain him against the wall. Cut his throat with the razor that's surprisingly within his reach. He wants to kill Sherlock. But all he does, is grit his teeth and continue moving his fingers, albeit begrudgingly.

"I know what you're thinking John. You're not as unapparent as you might think." The brunet's tone is bland, and a little mocking; his normal “Sherlock is deducing” voice. 

"You want to kill me. There are plenty of options to do so, and you know it. But, you also know something else- deep in that little subconscious of yours, the one that you pretend doesn't exist, something whispers darkly to you. Do you want to know what it is John? I can tell you, since you aren't listening to it..."

John's hands curl into tight fists in Sherlock's hair for a moment, only a moment, before he makes them relax. "Do tell Sherlock." He struggles to keep his voice even and emotionless. 

Sherlock sits up, and turns his face to look straight into John's beautiful blue eyes. "There's a part of you John, a part that knows you should give up. How will you ever function in society again? Crippled, mentally damaged...afraid of every little sound, or sight that will remind you of me. You will have a hard time making new friends, old friends always kept at arms length. 

"How will you even find that love you have always craved from a partner? You're beaten...broken, and the only one who will ever fully accept you, is me. That's why you haven't killed me yet...because without me, who will you have in the end to hold you together so you won't fall apart?"

John keeps eye contact with Sherlock's odd cyan eyes for as long as he can, before he has to look away. He is shaking all over, with rage and sorrow, because Sherlock is right– he is always bloody right! And it hurts more than anything, more than his physical pain ever could, to acknowledge that. It hurts and John Watson wants to deny it, but what would even be the point?

Sherlock's fingers glide up, and mold to the shape of John's rough cheek. "It's okay John." He soothes, a look of empathy in his eyes. "You have me...you'll always have me. I can take you somewhere you won't have to face the world. I can build you a dream, that you will never have to wake from. Doesn't that sound nice?"

John's chest aches and he can't look at Sherlock, because there are tears in his eyes and doesn't want the detective to see them. He has seen him cry before, when John was in pain, but never in absolute, soul crushing sadness and agony. "I'm so tired Sherlock..."

Sherlock can hear the soap bubbles popping in his drying hair, but he ignores it and murmurs, "It's okay John, you can fall asleep. I'm right here, I’ll take care of you." His voice is soft and crooning, like a mother talking to a newborn baby.

John doesn't bother to correct him and tell him that, while he is physically tired, that's not the kind of tired he meant. Instead John lets his seemingly permanent state of exhaustion take over and, though he knows he shouldn't, begins to drift off.

A smile breaks out across Sherlock's lips when he sees John's hazy blue eyes close, and his head lolls down onto his shoulder. Sherlock stands then, water dripping down and making splashing noises in the tub, and he stares down at the blond. How easy it was, he thinks to himself, to bend John's will with the truth. He stoops down, and hoists the man up into his arms; carrying him like a child back into his room. Sherlock walks back into the bathroom after sprawling John out on the bed, and proceeds to continue washing himself. 

When he is finished, he unplugs the drain, and gets out, and towels off before walking naked into his room. A gentle smile tugs at Sherlock's cupid's bow lips, when he sees John sleeping deep, and peacefully; all nestled in heavy blankets and pillows. He knows time is running out for them, and that soon Moriarty will have his men raining down on 221b baker street in search of John. But for this small moment, for a little bit longer, he lets himself feel comfortable in the knowledge that John Watson is his. 

~T.B.C.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so very long to update. There are a lot of reasons why, but for the most part it's due to my own negligence, and the fact that redroses100 has been very busy lately signing up and now in school. The next chapter will be posted when I'm done working on another chapter for a Hobbit ficI'm working on. Until then, continue to be awesomely patient, and know I love you all!


	9. Shining Silver beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Moriarty ally themselves together to help bring back John. Meanwhile Sherlock tries a new tactic on the good doctor, one that has finally sent John over the edge of hope. Trigger warning for those who don't like to read suicidal thoughts in fics.

The Thinning Line 

Chapter Nine: Shining Silver beauty 

Mycroft tries to appear completely calm and collected as his car approaches 221b. But inside he is writhing with anxiety about facing his brother, when he's obviously so far gone. He glances at Moriarty out of the corner of his eye, relieved that the man is too concerned thinking about John to even notice his anxiety. As good as his shields are, Mycroft is sure the Consulting Criminal would be able to see through them. If Moriarty wasn't so distracted. 

It's odd. Mycroft Holmes never thought he would be in this position. Well, he had considered the possibility many times throughout Sherlock's life, but he'd hoped it wouldn't happen. Now that he was here, sitting next to his would be enemy, Mycroft finds himself comforted by the fact that John has someone to look after him while he takes care of Sherlock.

Jim's leg is jostling up and down impatiently, as he sits in the back seat of one of Mycroft's shiny, prissy cars. He is barely able to contain the vibrating anger and anxiety that is overcoming his usual calm, and cold demeanor. "Can't you drive any faster?" He snaps at the driver, needing to take out his anger on someone before he decided to punch a hole through the roof of the car.

"We are driving as fast as the law permits, Moriarty. We will arrive in due time." Mycroft tells the man blandly, though he too wishes he could demand his driver to go faster. As anxious as he is to confront the shadow that his little brother has turned into, John has been in his hands for far too long already. Mycroft shudders to think of what condition the good doctor will be in.

"Oh come off it Mycroft...it makes me sick when you act all goody goody, like the nice little Queen's lapdog that you are." Moriarty's nerves are too fluttery, and haywire for him to force the sing song quality so many people associated with him, into his voice. "Live a little for once, and make the stupid bitch driving GO. A. LITTLE. FASTER!"

Mycroft sighs, and simply turns his face towards the window. He is trying desperately not to tap his foot as well. But luckily, or unluckily in this case, 221b appears as they turn a corner, and he's not proud of how quickly he rushes to the door handle, and out of the car.

Like Mycroft, Jim's hand is on the car door handle before it even has the chance to stop, and he is rushing out and slamming the door shut violently as his anger outlet. He looks up, and sees the elder Holmes staring at him in thinly veiled amusement. Though it doesn't last long, before a grim sort of determination falls across Mycroft's face. The man turns, and looks at 221b, and sighs before looking back and saying, "Shall we?" 

Moriarty smiles wickedly and replies, "Time to pay the piper Sherly, I'm here to collect." 

Mycroft lets Jim charge in first, knowing he couldn't stop him even if he wanted to; but, he is hot on the Irishman's heels, hurrying up the stairs quicker than he ever has before.

The more steps Jim climbs, the faster his pulse quickens with the elation he is feeling as he fantasizes about all the fun things he gets to do to Sherlock's body. First, Jim was going to do every single thing to him, that he did to his Johnny Boy; though, maybe he'd have Sebastian rape him instead when he got better...that would really do a number on the detective's ass for sure. The two men walk into the living room, which is eerily silent and calm. Jim's blood runs cold, because before he even needed to search the other rooms, he knew that Sherlock was gone and had whisked John away with him.

Mycroft immediately senses it as well, and with a stony face he looks to the man beside him. "I am sorry Moriarty. Truly I am."

Jim can feel his body literally SHAKING with untold rage, and disappointment. John...he was this fucking close! And now the poor man was lost! 

"NO!!" He screams, and turns to the nearby coffee table and kicks it hard enough to send it scudding across the carpet a few feet. He walks over to it, and kicks and kicks until one of the legs, and a couple of his toes, breaks. "NO! NO! NO! I will find him, I will fucking FIND HIM! And when I do, Sherlock dies Mycroft! I will kill him, and I will relish every single moment until he is lying cold, and lifeless beneath me!"

Mycroft feels that now would be the absolute worst moment to remind the enraged mad man of their terms of agreement. Instead he nods solemnly, glancing around at the gory mess that 221b has been reduced to. "Before anyone can be murdered, we should decide our next move."

Moriarty's chest is heaving, his heart thundering so fast against his rib cage he almost thinks it might beat itself senseless. But he sucks in a calming breath, because right now John NEEDED him- he needed him to be sensible, and rational about the situation. Jim wants to laugh as he thinks bitterly, 'Oh how the tables have turned...' Him, James Moriarty, putting aside emotions he would never hesitate to act upon, to think about the cold unwavering facts. He sounded like the other Sherlock, but it doesn't make his skin crawl like it would before...not when the roles had been reversed, and he was the one who needed to save John Watson from certain death. "Yes..." Jim whispers calmly. "We need to figure out a plan, Mycroft. And we need to do it fast, or we can kiss the John we know and love...bye bye."

—

At first John wakes up slowly, like he is digging himself out of mud. But pain shoots up his spine as he stretches, and with it, the memories return. He sits up quickly, despite the pain, and looks around with wide eyes. The first thing he notices is that he is alone, which doesn't particularly bother him. And then John takes in the appearance of the room around him. 

It's clearly not 221b, and there are no windows, but the furnishings are nice enough. And it's all unfamiliar. Where was he? Where was...Sherlock? Or did Jim...no. He wouldn't let himself hope.

It was by coincidence that Sherlock walked by John's new room, and heard him stirring awake with a pained groan. This was going to be the hardest part for him... but it was all part of a bigger plan, so instead of rushing in to coddle his little soldier, Sherlock makes his way to the kitchen and grabs the tray of food he had prepared. It was simple, just a can of microwaved soup, and some crackers, and a bottle of water- but for now it would be something. Sherlock walks briskly back to John's room, and knocks a few times before calling out, "John? If you're awake, I have some food for you."

John's head snaps towards Sherlock's voice, and the door, and his heart jumps to his throat. He doesn't reply, mostly because he is confused. So confused! Why... Sherlock sounded concerned almost. More than that, the man was knocking on the door, giving John a choice whether or not to invite him in. 

What was Sherlock doing? Why was he acting like this?

"John? I know you're awake, I can hear you breathing." Sherlock says softly, trying to make his voice soothing and normal enough to make the blond respond. "You need to eat John, just a little. It's not the best food in the world, and I will make it up to you when I have the time, but for now it will have to do."

John opens his mouth but again, nothing comes out. He doesn't understand... he doesn't know what is going on, why Sherlock is doing this. Why was he acting like...like an actual human being? "Sh...Sher..." John can't force the man's full name out, he just can't.

Putting a nice, care free smile on his face, Sherlock punches in the 4 digit code, and the lock clicks open to John's room. He walks in slowly, balancing the tray in his steepled fingers. 

"Here we are, some chicken soup. Though admittedly, I had to use the canned stuff...didn't have enough time to learn how to make it from scratch. No matter, it will at least fill you up enough for now." Sherlock's lips stay glued up into a smile, though he finds it easier than he should have to make it look genuine.

John just stares at the man for a long time, and then the soup, before looking at Sherlock again, a little doubt and hesitance on his face.

"Look, I know it'll taste like rubbish John, but at least TRY it? I did add some spices in it, to help cover up the tin can taste, and I'm quite proud of the outcome." Sherlock babbles, knowing full well why John is feeling trepidation. If he acted like normal, socially inept Sherlock, then it was one step closer to how he needed things to be.

The blond's eyebrows remain scrunched in confusion and fear, but he reaches out with shaking hands for the bowl of soup. His stomach is far too twisted for him to be hungry, but for whatever reason, Sherlock is acting...normal. And he would rather the man act normal than...well... his new normal. So John doesn't want to upset him by refusing.

Sherlock smiles when John takes the tray, and looks down expectantly; a bright eagerness twinkling in his cyan eyes. "I hope it tastes alright, though if you don't like it I can make something else."

John bites his lip for a moment before bringing the spoon to his lips, and tasting it hesitantly. It doesn't taste drugged, or tampered with, but he can never be sure really. He has never had any drugs, so he doesn't know what they would taste like. But the soup tastes like generic, store bought canned soup.

"Well?' Sherlock asks, a little too excited to please the older man.

John's stomach twists again, but he forces his face to remain neutral. "Good...it's good..." 

"Excellent!" The brunet claps his hands in his excitement, and smiles. "Well, I shall leave you to your meal. I have some things to...take care of for now. I’ll see you as soon as I can." With that, Sherlock turns, and shuts the door behind him; locking it with the code before leaving John to eat in silence.

John watches Sherlock go, and listens to the door lock, before moving the tray off his lap, and to the side. What the jolly hell was going on? What...what was the mad genius trying to do exactly? Sherlock had taken so much pleasure in his fear and desolation, he adored being evil. Why was he now acting...like he used to. 

No, Sherlock was acting better than he used to! He was acting like an actual caring, mothering human being! It's confusing, and it makes John's chest ache with longing. He wishes he didn't know better, that he could play along, because all John Watson had ever wanted before everything started going to hell, was this. Was Sherlock Holmes, loving and wonderful. 

But it must be a trick. This was just another way Sherlock was going to try and break him. It must be.

John wanted to kick at the tray of food. Pick up the bowl and smash it against the wall, and use the ceramic bits to cut Sherlock if, and when, he came back. He hated this...not understanding anything- being left alone in a world full of nothingness, and unending questions. With a tired sigh, he flops back onto the bed below him, idly noticing how plush and comfortable it is. And that makes his chest ache fiercer...because it reminds him of Jim. 

Tears burn at the edges of John's vision as he thinks of his soft, chestnut brown hair. His big, expressive amber eyes, and his lopsided smile. He knows that this was all for Jim, him being here was protecting the younger man; but in the end, John felt hollow for it instead of fulfilled. With a deep inhale, he banishes the tears and lays back, staring blankly up at the ceiling for hours.

—

John can't seem to figure out, as he lies there feeling numb, why he sacrificed himself in the first place. Jim kept telling him that everything would be okay, that Sherlock would never get to them. And John thought he believed him. So why did he blindly sacrifice himself?

He snaps his head to the side, and sighs heavily through his nose. In the end, it didn't really matter WHY he did it...the only thing that mattered was keeping Jim as safe as possible. And Sebastian... his stomach twists into a knot when he thinks of Moran, pale and teetering on the brink of death. 

And Jim’s face...oh that face, full of genuine concern and worry for a friend- John guessed in the end, that was the reason. Because they meant more to him than anything, and he would do everything in his power to let them live another day. To maybe grow old, with greying hair and beautiful laughter lines. John smiles sadly at the thought, wishing for just a moment that he could be there to see that.

He missed Jim, even with the doubt Sherlock planted in his head buzzing around. He wished he was back in the safe house, curled up between Jim and Seb, watching a mindless sitcom while Seb does his puzzles and Jim plans world domination from his mobile. Instead he is alone, in pain, and so confused and afraid. At least before, John knew what to expect. 

Now... he has no idea what is happening, or what was going to happen. And it is soul consuming, it is terrifying.

John closes his eyes against the renewed onslaught of tears. Sleep...yes. That would be his escape from this, even if he wasn't particularly tired. 

Even if they were dreams, unattainable phantoms not real in the waking world, at least they would be something. And maybe if he was lucky, he would dream of Jim- and everything would be okay again. Even if only for a moment. 

—

Waking up is not tranquil in the least this time. John is completely aware of where he is, and he can sense Sherlock near him. He hardly dares to open his eyes, but Sherlock's bright cyan eyes are like fire on him. Reluctantly John gives in, and cracks his eyes open, immediately seeing the brunet, perched on the edge of his bed staring at him. 

It makes his skin crawl, and John has the urge to crawl under the covers and ignore Sherlock. But the man would never let him do that, not without a fight... and he was just too tired to struggle any more. 

"Morning John!" Sherlock chirps, and edges a little closer. "I made breakfast for you. You didn't eat a lot of the soup last night, but I don't really blame you...it really was rubbish. So! I made extra this morning, though I wasn't quite sure what you would want, so I made a bit of everything." 

He gestures down to the tray of food in his lap. "There's eggs over easy, bacon, sausage, toast, and oatmeal with lots of honey, I know how much you like honey." Smiling widely, an absurd thought hits him, and Sherlock just blurts it out; Speed usually had this effect on him... 

"I wonder if you were a bee in a former life John, it would be quite plausible. You know, I wanted to keep bees at one point in my adolescence, for a time I found them absolutely fascinating! Did you know that according to science, a bee shouldn't be able to fly at all! Their bodies are too big and their wings are too small, they shouldn't be able to do it!"

John takes in Sherlock's dilated pupils, and cheery nature, and quickly deduces that he is on some kind of drug. Which instantly makes the man ten times more dangerous. John wordlessly takes the tray, wondering if Sherlock will just leave like he did last night. He's still not hungry, and if he tries to eat in front of the brunet, John is sure he'll be sick.

"I really hope everything is to your liking John! It took me ages to make, but I had nothing better to do. If you'd like, I can go fetch you some tea? I just put the kettle on a half hour ago, water should still be hot enough." Sherlock is practically vibrating with giddiness, even if John looks wary, and a little thrown off by his attitude. 

"Oh, and don't worry- when I take speed I only get a little wired, but I promise you it's nothing like when I drink, oh do I get moody. I had to take something to keep me going, too many problems, too little time and all that jazz. Coffee wasn't cutting it, so I had to take something stronger."

John fidgets uncomfortably, eyes flicking constantly from Sherlock, to the food, and back. "I'm sure it's very good." He murmurs softly, his voice slightly raspy. The brunet looks expectantly at him, so John takes a deep, calming breath and pick up one of the slices of toast. He takes a small bite, and chews it thoughtfully, trying not to look at the other man.

"Oh jam!" Sherlock exclaims, shooting up off the bed like a bottle rocket. "You like apricot jam, yes? Oh and tea- did you want tea?"

Watson stares at the genius with wide eyes, surprised by his sudden movements; but nods eventually.

"Yes, alright! Be back in a jiffy, John." Sherlock nods his head quickly, and rushes off- though not forgetting to close and lock the door behind him.

The blond stares blankly at the door for a long moment before putting the piece of toast down. Even if he was hungry, he would prefer not to eat. But, he would also prefer to go to sleep, and not wake up...

With a jar of apricot jam, a butter knife, and a hot mug of mint tea in his hands, Sherlock makes his way back to John's room and unlocks the door, before shutting it behind him. "Here you go John." He hands him the jam, and the knife, and sets the tea down on his bedside table.

John's eyes immediately go to the knife, and while it's dull, it could still do damage. But whether he is thinking of doing damage to Sherlock or to himself, he is not entirely sure. "Thank you..." he mumbles, eyes still glued to the shiny silver knife.

Sherlock sees the way John's eyes light up when they catch sight of the knife, and he frowns. "You're welcome John...though, I think that you are being rather discourteous. The knife couldn't do much damage unless you sharpen it, but the intent is still there. 

"If you want to try and kill me, go ahead. But know this- without me, you cannot leave this room. And if you do find a way, what then? What would you do?"

"Who said anything about killing you?" John blurts out before he can stop himself. He cringes, and looks down at his shaking hands, terrified of what Sherlock's reaction will be.

"It's okay John, I understand why you would want to kill me. I did...terrible things to you- things that I wish that I could undo. But know this-" He looks into John's deep blue eyes, his own harder than diamonds because he is so serious. "I will do everything in my power, to set things right."

John's hands curl into fists, because he doesn't believe his former friend, and he won't let himself believe him, no matter what. But he is slightly relieved Sherlock took his words that way, and not the way he intended them. He shuddered to think how Sherlock would react if he admitted that he wanted to die. That he wanted to kill himself.

"Now!" Sherlock exclaims suddenly. "Why don't we put this whole depressing conversation behind us, and work on filling you up!"

"I'm not very hungry." Again, John's mouth opens before he can really think, and he cringes again, preparing to be struck, or grabbed, or even just snarled at.

Sherlock's smile tightens, but he looks at the doctor with concern. "Are you feeling ill, John? It's been a while since you have eaten anything, you need to keep up your strength. If you want, I can make something else."

John closes his eyes tightly, fighting off tears. "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you acting like this, so human, when I know differently? When you've hurt me so much and done it with pleasure?" 

His feelings are in turmoil, so much so, that he can't help but let them escape through his lips. "Why are you doing this Sherlock? Why are you...just why?"

Sherlock's brows furrow. John's tears confuse him, because all he has done is act caring and devoted today. His hands cup the blond's face, his thumbs wiping up his tears, and smoothing across the bags under his eyes. "Don't cry John... Please? I do not know how to handle your tears. I'm trying my best to make you happy, can't that be enough?"

"No it can't, because I don't know what you're doing, but I know it's a trick and I know it's just going to hurt me more if I let myself fall for it!" John gasps out, trying to pretend that he's not crying, despite the tears carving paths down his face. 

Sherlock's hold on John's face tightens, but not in an uncomfortable way- more reassuring than anything. "I know that I have no right to ask you to forgive me...but please- PLEASE understand that I am trying to earn your trust back. I hurt you, because I love you, and was afraid that you could never feel the same. It was wrong, what I did was awful...but I regret my actions, and I will pay the price if you turn me away. But understand this- in the end, we are all each other has."

John's heart practically shatters from Sherlock's last words, and the constant image of Jim in his mind dims a little. "N-No...you hurt me...and you told me...I'm just a possession...just something you've lusted for...you don't love me. You don't...you don't..."

"Oh John," he murmurs, voice a low hush full of anguish at the past. "I'm sorry...I was not in the right frame of mind. I know it's an excuse, and a paltry one at that- but I was mad, crazed by my love for you." He stoops down and presses his forehead against John's, and closes his eyes. "I'm not asking for your love in return...I'm merely begging for you to EAT something, so you can stay strong and healthy. Can you do that for me, please?"

"W-Why, so you can keep me alive to rape, over and over?" He sobs, clenching his eyes shut.

"No," Sherlock whispers softly, fingers caressing John's skin. "I want you to live so I can make you tea every morning. So we can curl up on the couch, and fall asleep watching re-runs of Doctor Who. I want you to live until our hair is grey, and we have smile lines and stories to tell. It will take time, but I promise to heal the pain I inflicted on not just your body,"

Sherlock stops, and places his hand on John's quivering chest, right over his beating heart. "But this as well. I want to see you smile again John, even if it takes me a lifetime."

John's sobs abruptly explode into pitiful, wailing tears and within half a minute he is crying too hard to breathe right. He can't believe Sherlock...but oh god, how he wants to! His chest throbs with anguish, and his stomach clenches painfully, a mixture of sudden hunger and soul wrenching despair.

Sherlock's hands fall limply to his sides, and he sighs deeply. "It seems my presence is only causing you further distress. I will go now...but promise me, John that you'll try to eat some more- just a little."

The man in question chokes out a weak agreement, just wanting Sherlock to go away so he can cry in privacy.

"Okay. I will be back later to collect your dishes, and whatever food you leave untouched." He stands up abruptly, and smiles. "If you're hungry enough for lunch, I can go grab Chinese take out?"

John can't answer, can't even nod or shake his head. Eventually Sherlock leaves without an answer, and John is left alone again. Something silver catches his eye after a few minutes of solid crying. Numbly, he realizes that Sherlock left the silver butter knife, right there in front of him.

The bright crystalline flash of the potential weapon makes John's heart soar! In all his utter brilliance, Sherlock Holmes left behind the one tool that could be his downfall. With shaking hands, John grabs for the knife, and admires it like the beautiful little thing it is. It's absurd really, how something so common as a butter knife can become the most treasured possession a desperate man can own. It's completely dull, as to be expected; but a few hours scraping it against the concrete walls could remedy that. 

This was it, the chance he could take to escape! John is elated, and a small smile tugs at his lips, before a sudden thought hits him, and he frowns. Sherlock was right...even if he managed to kill him, it would only be because he came in there to feed him; and the door always locks automatically behind him. John could possibly wait right behind the door, and catch Sherlock before it closed, but what would be the point? The whole place could be rigged with locks that only opened through codes or retinal scanners... 

He could literally go from the frying pan, and into the fire- because without Sherlock there to feed him, he would die of starvation within a few weeks. And that would be a slow, and agonizing way to go. He was literally trapped in a room, with no possible way out. It makes him want to kick and scream, and punch things- but that wouldn't help him much either...it would only make Sherlock angry if he broke something, either in the room or in his body. John sighs, and stares resignedly at the ceiling, his fingers clenching idly around the useless little knife in his hands.

Although... he didn’t necessarily have to leave this room to be free. The little thought in the back of his head, that's been showing up randomly here and there, seems to burst into brilliant light at the front of his mind all at once. What was the point of even living anymore? John didn't believe for a second that Sherlock, his Sherlock, was himself again. Eventually he'll hurt him again, and all the pain of the past and present will come back with full force. 

John just wants it to be over. Even if he gets saved, or escapes– he will always remember. The memories are burned into his mind, and the scars will never fade. He is broken, ruined, disgusted with himself. What was the point of going on, if he couldn't even look at himself without his stomach squeezing? 

He wants peace, and rest, but looking at the shiny silver butter knife, he just knows that he can't do it. He is too weak, just like Sherlock had always said. He can't now, and who knows if he'll ever be able to in the future, as much as he may want it.

With a resignation born of defeat, John stuffs the knife beneath his pillow, hoping that maybe one day he can work up enough courage to use it. He stares blankly at the food tray, and it would have made his heart swell to bursting, if it wasn't for the current circumstances. How many times in the past, had he begged and whined at Sherlock to cook for him, just once? John's stomach turns because of the memories, but he knows that he really does need to eat SOMETHING. Even if he wasn't remotely hungry in any way, Sherlock would be angry again if he started refusing food...and even if it confused him, and John didn't quite believe this cheerful, caring Sherlock was real- at least it was something better. 

And maybe, if they kept at it long enough, he could lose himself to the delusion that Sherlock loved him.

John picks at the now cold food for a few minutes, before sighing and willing himself to take small bites. His stomach threatens to send it all right back up, even with the first bite, but he wills himself to keep eating. He only manages about half of what Sherlock brought him, before he just can't eat even take one more bite. He isn't full, not by a long shot, but if he takes one more bite, he knows he will be sick. There is no doubt about it.

With the lingering taste of smokey bacon, and apricot jam slathered over buttered toast on his tongue, John pushes the plate away. He wanted to stomach some of the oatmeal, because Sherlock had been so ENTHUSIASTIC about him trying it...but he knew the cold, glutinous mess would only make him feel queasy. He lays back down, and faces away from the door; curling in on himself protectively. It would take awhile, because over the past few days all he had done was SLEEP... but eventually, it would claim him- and John Watson welcomed that numb oblivion with open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will come out as soon as I can manage, until then have a wonderful day!


	10. The Criminal's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Moriarty team up to interrogate some poor sod, and things get messy. Later, Moran and Jim get to have a little heart to heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short delay in updating, hope you enjoy the chapter!

The Thinning Line 

Chapter 10: The Criminal's Lament 

Mycroft stares at the man sitting across the table from him, the most unimpressed look on his face. This is really the company Sherlock keeps these days? He had expected something a little more...interesting. Surely Sherlock still got bored easily, so why would this man hold his interest? He certainly wasn't holding his own. 

"You seem to be the lowest form of moron on the planet. But, you might be of use, so let's get this over with."

The man, slightly slack jawed and a bit dull around the edges- raised his chin in defiance. He set Mycroft Holmes with a challenging glare, as if he was a match for the man who practically ran the entire British Government from his tiny, leather note book. 

"An' what if I refuse eh? What would you do then, execute me? Torture me o' bit to get me to squeal? Not 'appenin on your life mate." He sat back, a haughty curl to his thin lips; twisting up his hideously pockmarked face.

Jim, who had stood off to the side surprisingly patient this whole time, finally snapped- after all, there was only so much stupidity one person could take at a time... "Oh! I do rather enjoy it when they've got spunk, don't you Mycy? Makes it so much more AMUSING when they break into teeny tiny pieces!" 

He moved forward slowly, like a cobra slithering on its belly towards its prey. Jim stopped just short of the man, and gave Mycroft a pouty, almost inquisitive look. "Can I break him now? I’ve been itching to get my hands all squishy squelchy for DAYS!" 

Mycroft gives Jim the stink eye look, but considers it for a longer moment than he will ever admit to. "We need information Moriarty. So, how do you intend to get that information, when his brains are slathered all over your hands?"

Jim tosses his head back, and sighs heavily through his nose- as if this was the most dull, and painfully tedious thing he's ever had the displeasure of doing. "Can't I draw a little blood? You know what they say, 'words flow freely only when there's running booze or blood.'"

The eldest Holmes glances at the man, raising an eyebrow in consideration before sighing almost as heavily as his unwitting companion had. "You have no idea how appealing his proposition is beginning to sound to me, Mr. Andorf. I am quite tired of dealing with the pathetic criminal class that my brother has become so comfortable submerging himself with. So either you talk, or you will get to spend some nice quality time with my temporary associate."

The man paled a bit, the sallow pallor of his skin growing more waxy in hue. It only lasted briefly, before he jutted out his pointy chin in an act of defiance; and chose to keep his lips pressed firmly closed, until the blood drained from them, turning them the same sickly, pale color as his face. He refused to look at either Moriarty or Mycroft; instead he steadfastly gazed somewhere between the two.

Jim cracked his neck back and forth, and licked his lower lips almost hungrily. "C'mon Mycy, I think it really is time to let me have some fun- after all, I’ve been such a good boy as of late...we need to remedy that, now don't we, Mr. Andorf?"

Mycroft drums his fingers on the table for another few long moments, before standing. "You will of course clean up any mess you make. And at least try to get information amidst the screams." His tone was dry, and as casually disinterested as ever. 

A wide grin splits Jim’s lips apart, and it is accompanied by a manic twinkle in his amber eyes; like he was a child, who was just gifted the most wonderful present his brain could conceive. "I’ll try my best, but you know me- I’m as fickle as they come." He shrugs nonchalantly and takes a few steps forward, leaning into the man's space. "Now, where should I begin?"

"Remember, you're cleaning it up. Might not want to get too messy." Mycroft mentions, before turning and walking towards the door. He stops before leaving, looking at the man and giving him one last chance to talk.

Sweat is beading the man's brow, his furtive gaze swiveling back and forth between Moriarty and Mycroft. "Okay, fine! Please- just don' let that PSYCHOPATH touch me..." He whimpers out pathetically. "I’ll answer your questions, just please..."

Mycroft allows himself a smug smile as he shuts the door, and returns to the table. Moriarty is pouting, but Mycroft merely raises an eyebrow at him, and turns to the thoroughly rodent like man. "Where is Sherlock?"

The man shakes a bit, and tosses his head back and forth quickly. "I 'onestly don't know where he is...last I 'eard he was setting up some safe house in Kensington, he kept muttering on about needing a cozy place to work things out."

Mycroft glances at Moriarty with a frown. Kensington. At least they got some new information. "What does that mean, what things does Sherlock need to work out exactly?"

"I dunno," The man shrugs. "Though I did catch a name somewhere in the mix, jus' thought it was another one of his informants. It was- uh...oh Wat something or other. John was the blokes first name. That's all I can really say, don't know much else meself..."

Mycroft glances at the Consulting Criminal just in time to notice the twitch his eye does at the mention of John's name, and he sighs. "Who would know more about it?"

The man catches the look glinting through Jim's eyes, and pales a bit further. "I'm uh...takin' it that this bloke means something to ya'?" All the false bravado has returned, and the man leans forward, resting his chin idly upon his open palms. "So, if I were to connect ya' to someone who knows more, maybe you can cut me a deal?"

"How about I stop him from cutting off your ears, and you tell me what I want to know." Mycroft threatens, his tone almost sounding snappish if it wasn't for the fact that he was, well... Mycroft. 

"Nah, see here- I understand how these things go." He shrugs, leveling the two geniuses with an uncompromising stare. "You need me, to get this John some thing or other back...an' you won't dare compromise this little bit of info I got tumblin' around in me head."

"Contrary to your belief, we do not in fact need you for anything. Sherlock has a wide net, plenty of loose ends we can pick at until they unravel to our demands. Prison is your best option at this point, because if you don't tell us, my...friend here will kill you in the most painful ways he knows. And if you do tell us, Sherlock will take great pleasure torturing you for spilling information. So make your decision, torture and death, or prison."

His beady eyes shift towards the short, yet imposing figure who now was leaning casually against the metal table in the room. He swallows thickly when Moriarty smiles, a tiny half curve of the lips, that was more frightening than anything he'd ever seen before- and he had seen horrors to last anyone a life time. Moriarty merely pulls a pocket knife from his trousers, and flicks it open effortlessly; his amber eyes flashing towards Andorf for just a moment, before settling back upon the quicksilver blade in his hand. "Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock..." Moriarty cooed, spinning the knife between his fingers restlessly.

Mycroft watched the man carefully, one elegant brow raised as he waited for either a surrender, or for Jim to get tired of waiting and lunge torwards the prisoner.

"O-Okay...okay I'll tell you what you need to know." Andorf's voice shakes and cracks in the silence, as his eyes swivel between the two equally terrifying men in the room with him. "There's a man, Smith is his name...he usually hangs around Sherlock's flat, he's the only one who might know where to find yer guy."

"Smith? Just Smith?"

"T-That's all I know 'im by, honest!" Andorf raises his hands in a petty attempt at defense, and shakes his head wildly from side to side, eyes wide and full of fear.

Mycroft glances at Moriarty, and gives the man a small nod. He did promise the criminal a bit of fun after all, and now Mycroft has his much needed information. He tucks his notebook into his pocket, and stands without a word. Just as silently, he turns and leaves the room, a solemn look on his face the whole way. 

He lied to the man, but he doesn't feel particularly bad for him. He needed a wake up call anyway. Life isn't fair. People lie, and cheat, and hurt the people who care for them. It's a dark, unjust world. It's a filthy, goddamn horror show. But Mycroft is one step closer to removing some of the filth. Sherlock was his brother, but he was also now his enemy; and he must be stopped. He will be stopped. Even if it meant having to kill him.

"Well, lookie here Mr. Andorf! It seems there really is no rest for the wicked." Moriarty's smile widens, and his fingers still. "Now, where should I begin? I always like to start with the fingers, but since I'm in a generous mood, I’ll let you pick."

"W-What? But he said-"

"Oh, I know what he said- he lied. See, that's simply one of the many things people do. We lie, all the time, just to spare people the ugly truth." Jim straightens up, and stares down at the quivering prisoner; his fingers buzzing with a tingly sort of thrill. Without warning, he lunges forward, and stabs the knife right into the man's fleshy thigh, and twists a few times for good measure.

The man roars in pain, and tries to swing both cuffed hands, in tight fists, at Jim’s face.

Jim dodges out of the way easily, a bright giggle bubbling passed his smirking lips. "Oh, this is fun!" He declares gleefully, pulling the knife out and thrusting it deep in the man's abdomen, only to pull out, and stab in again and again. With a happy cry, Jim straddles Andorf and presses close to whisper, "it was fun doin' business with you, but I’ve got other engagements. So as much as I’d like to, I really can't draw our little chat out too much longer." 

With one last mighty heave, Moriarty twists the knife out of the man's gut, feeling the hot, sticky blood pooling into his expensive Westwood. Then, with a final small smile, he sing songs, "Au revoir!" And slices the man's neck in one quick, clean line; leaving a gaping, smiling maw in the blades wake. Leaning forward, Jim watches with a fascination border lining on euphoria as Andorf gurgles for air around all the blood, and slowly the light fades from his beady eyes. After a few more moments, of catching his breath, Moriarty stands, and flicks the blood off his knife and straightens out the lapels of his suit jacket. 

Turning on his heel, not even sparing the dead man one last glance, he heads for the door and after Mycroft who would be waiting for him in the study.

Mycroft glances up when Moriarty comes in, covered in blood and eyes shining. He scrunches up his nose lightly in disgust, but sighs in almost exasperated fondness. "I thought I told you to clean up when you were done."

"But mooom...cleaning up is sooooo boring!" Moriarty groans, a wicked little smile on his face. "I’ll have one of my men take care of the body, if that will appease you, your highness."

Mycroft's eyes narrow, but he ignores the consulting criminal's usual barbs in favor of more important things. "A man named Smith lurking around Baker Street. Do you want to look, or shall I?"

Moriarty waves one of his hands flippantly, scattering tiny crimson drops onto Mycroft's expensive Persian carpet. "I’ll let you handle all the big stuff, kay?"

"And just what will you be occupying yourself with?" Mycroft grits out, thinly glaring at the blood spatter.

Jim's light hearted smile falls abruptly. "I'll be checking in on Moran, see if he'll be up on his feet soon. If we're going to track down your darling little brother dearest, it might help to have him with us."

"Well run along then, I have a lot to do." Mycroft murmurs by way of dismissal.

"Aye aye captain!" Moriarty replies, before strolling out of 'The British Government's' study, whistling cheerfully.

—

Sebastian Moran fills in another word on his most recent word search, and cringes as a phantom pain twists up from his side. "May as well come in Jim." He calls when he sees a shadow stand just beyond the door.

A reluctant smile twists Jim's lips, and he breathes in deeply- preparing himself to actually face Sebastian. He hated how this situation made him well...how it actually made him FEEL something. Not just something though...a multitude of emotions were boiling in the pit of his stomach like a pot that's had a lid shoved on top of it in vain; to keep it all from bubbling over and making a mess. Jim couldn't stand in the doorway for an eternity though, especially since it just cemented the fact that he was weak...succumbing to even the basest of emotions like fear and worry. So, with bolstered resolve, he strode right on it- a smirk in place on his face as he greeted Seb. 

"Well, mornin' sunshine." Moriarty winks at the pale blond, propped up in his hospital bed, and doing cross word puzzles. "You look like shit Seb, do I need to bust you out of this place?"

"If you bust me out, I’ll look even more like shite. It wasn't no mosquito bite that put me in here, remember?" He gives Jim a wry smile though, because he was the only person who really knew the man; and because of that fact, Moran can tell that there's something wrong with Jim, and that he simultaneously wanted to talk about it, and then never wanted to talk about it. So he takes the initiative. "Want to tell me what's on your mind Jim?"

Moriarty's eyes narrow, and not for the first time he is reminded of Moran's easy observations, and sharp intellect. "And what makes you so sure there are things that need to be talked about, hm? You're lucky I like you Seb, men have died at my hand for pettier reasons than trying to pry inside me." 

There's an undeniably heavy weight in his chest though; a ten ton brick sitting beside his heart, where John's warm laugh, and careworn smile used to reside. Jim frowns, because in the end, there really was something wrong with him- gut wrenching, heart stopping agony twists and writhes beneath the thinly veiled surface of his indifferent facade. And Sebastian was the only one left to care...the only one here, by his side, brave enough to pry.

"Jim we've been through...far too much together. Why do you ever think you can lie to me?" Moran hesitates, and grinds his teeth together; his fingers practically snapping the pen between them, when he balls his hands into fists. " 'Sides...I miss him too..." 

Moriarty flinches slightly, and for the first time since he was a young boy- mere words were able to flay him open. They rip into his skin with jagged, imperfect edges that gaped open to invite festering maggots to feed on his flesh; the dark thoughts chasing through his head of 'what if's' and regrets... 

"I...I..." Words are stuck in Jim's throat, the lump of anguish resting tightly in his vocal chords– not allowing him to voice his thoughts. But he clears his throat, and tries again. "I wish I would have told him not to go upstairs...I wish I would have brought him with me to see you. He could have handled that pain...now, fuck now I don't even want to imagine what he's going through, or if- if he's still even alive-" He cuts himself off, and turns away; hating the way his eyes burn and water.

Sebastian's heart starts throbbing painfully upon hearing Jim's soft admission, and he wants to comfort the man; though he really has no idea how to comfort anyone. Especially the great Consulting Criminal. He doubted there was a man alive who would really know how to comfort James Moriarty. Well...maybe John... 

"Jim...even if you had brought him along and not left him alone...he would have gone anyway. He would have waited patiently until neither of us was around, and gone. You know as well as I, that there's nothing in this world that could keep John Watson from doing what he believes he must do. It's not your fault, and you know that."

Soothing words, made of ice that were meant to alleviate the raw, fresh burns in his heart; only make him angrier. Moriarty turns suddenly, and slams his fist into the dry wall, screaming his rage out in one long, guttural cry. His shoulders are shaking, though he is not sure if it's from the adrenaline, the pain shooting white hot needles up his arm, or from trying desperately to contain his wretched sobs. After a few moments, Jim's shoulders slump and he sighs, before laughing humorlessly. "In the end, even if I set out to do it to him, it looks like Sherlock was the one who succeeded in burning the heart right out of me..."

For a long moment, Sebastian can't think of what to say, but then he draws in a soft breath and sighs minutely. "At least you have a heart."

Turning to look at his companion, an ironic smile finally alights upon Moriarty's face. He swallows thickly, before shaking his head. "After all this time...the tin man finally got a heart."

"Be funny all you like Jim. Yer worried about John. I am too. But he's John Watson, our John Watson. How can you think he'd give up? Whatever Holmes has done to him, we'll fix it. And Holmes will pay. Do you honestly doubt that?"

Jim looks away, the sparking doubt in his gaze too raw, and fresh- and he doesn't want Seb to see it. Sighing heavily, he can only bring himself to reply, "All the king's horses and all the king's men, might not be able to put John back together again...you know it just as well as I, you just don't want to admit it to yourself. Sherlock might finally take the brave doctor over the edge, and we may never get him back."

Moran doesn't reply for a very long moment, before he swallows thickly and puts on his steely soldier face. "Then what the bloody hell are you doing here, instead of fucking finding our John? Damn it Jim, bring. Him. Home."

"WHAT IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT TO FIND?!" Jim shouts suddenly, and he can't stop the tears welling up in his eyes, though he does refuse to let them fall. "Sebastian...what if- what if he's gone? How...how can I handle that...? what if he's..." 

He lowers his head, and sucks in a shuddery lung full of air. He was AFRAID. So damn scared, because- John could really be dead, and it would be his fault. HIS FAULT, that the first person he had ever let himself love, suffered because of him. God, John Watson was Jim's undoing...he didn't even recognize himself anymore. James Moriarty fled, abandoning Jim to a wasteland of fear without a life line built of false bravado to cling to.

"I guess there's only one way to find out." Sebastian murmurs, at a loss for what to do or say. "I believe in John Watson. And he's somewhere out there waiting for you. Go get him."

The blond's words are like a slap across Jim's face. I believe in John Watson... Jim smiles, because Seb is right. He was wasting time giving into his emotions when John NEEDED him. Moriarty laughs, though now it's soft and airy, and real. "Look at us Sebastian, we're a right mess aren't we?"

Moran gives his boss a tiny, crooked smile and nods. "Yeah we are...but maybe for once it's okay. When we get John back I’ll be able to tell him all about our emotional breakdown. And he'll laugh, I know he will."

"I'm glad you're okay Seb. I don't know what I’d do without you." Jim admits, only a little of wariness in his tone for revealing that he actually cares. 

"Now, my damsel in distress needs his knight in shining armor. Every fairy tale worth reading needs a good old fashioned hero, and it looks like I’ll be playing the part." Moriarty adds with a wink.

"Well...that is a change up. But, what can yeh do? Go on then."

Nodding resolutely, Jim tosses over his shoulder before he leaves, "Hurry up and get better Sebby, I may need your help nursing Johnny Boy back to health." And with that, he left– a new fire blazing inside him, a desire to see Sherlock Holmes BURN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who was who?   
> Redroses100: Mycroft and Moran   
> Loreyulia: Andorf and Moriarty


	11. An inexorable price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John awakes to another round of bizarre Sherlock behavior. The two discuss morals, and the fate of friends-- until John finally snaps, and takes matters into his own hands. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock has his own agenda, and will do anything in his power to save the good doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for having nothing better to do aside from typing up more story! Trigger warnings ahead for attempted suicide, and graphic depictions of violence.

The Thinning Line 

Chapter Eleven: An inexorable price 

John's eyes felt puffy and crusty, as he slowly started to come awake. There was something cold and hard in his hand, which is tucked under his pillow. A knife, based off the shape as he runs his fingers over the length of it. A butter knife, to be exact, John recalls, remembering the events leading up to his most recent nap. It also explains why his eyes feel swollen. 

He had cried, a lot, and frankly, he still feels like crying. But John has been woken by something, the sound of a mechanic lock opening, so it's no time to cry. Instead he lets go of the knife, and brings his hands to his sore eyes to wipe away the sleepers crust, that's so much worse than usual because of the crying. The door opens, but the blond doesn't look to see who it is. After all, who could it really be, besides Sherlock?

The plastic sound of rustling bags fills up the arid silence of John's room, and Sherlock quickly guesses that the man was probably asleep. Shutting the door softly behind him, he turns to find John's wary, stormy blue eyes on him. Sherlock smiles, and lifts the bag in a show of offering. "I got Chinese take away- if you're hungry...there's extra dumplings, I remembered how much you love those."

John doesn't reply, just stares at his unwanted guest. Sherlock loved dumplings. John loved egg rolls. The only reason the brunet thought John liked dumplings, is because he complained that the insufferable git was hogging them all one time. But John wouldn't expect Sherlock to know that, no the detective had so much more important things to think about, like crime and the science of deduction. 

He supposed Sherlock still thought about crime a lot, just now it's from the other side of the fence.

Sherlock stands there almost hesitantly, shifting from foot to foot. "So, are you hungry John? I can always put it away, and heat it up later, if you aren't wanting to eat right now."

As the smell of the Chinese food reaches him, John's stomach lets out the loudest, most pathetic groan, proclaiming for him that he is indeed, hungry. For the last few days, he has felt far too sick to eat. And he still does feel sick. But right now John feels more hungry than anything. 

A bright smile lights up Sherlock's face, when he hears the blond's stomach growl loudly. "Well, I guess that answers my question!" He makes his way over, and settles down on the bed next to John. Sherlock then proceeds to pull out a container of dumplings, kung pao chicken, curried rice, and beef and broccoli. 

"Take your pick of whatever you want to start with, I’ll just nab some here and there; like old times, eh John?" He nudges the man beside him slightly with his elbow, and picks out a dumpling with relish, biting into it and groaning happily.

John can't help but flinch as Sherlock's elbow nudges him, or cringe away as the lanky man gets comfortable next to him. But he is hungry, so John reluctantly picks up one of the boxes and cracks open the chopsticks. It bothers him, what Sherlock said. 'Just like old times'. 

Did Sherlock really think that? Did he really believe anything could ever be the same again? That John could ever forgive or forget, especially when he knew this must all be an act? 

Breaking apart his own chopsticks, Sherlock grabbed the carton of curried rice and started shoveling in a few mouthfuls. "Sorry, I don't have a telly installed yet, but I’ll get one as soon as I can tomorrow. For now, I guess we'll just have to entertain each other."

John's eyes flick to the brunet, and he clenches his jaw, but only shrugs. He was not in an entertaining mood. Or really, in a talking mood in general.

"Oh come on John, you can talk with your mouth full- it's not like we're in Buckingham Palace."

"Don't know what to say," John mumbles bluntly, keeping his eyes on his food.

Sherlock sighs, shoveling another mouthful of rice into his mouth before speaking around it, "You've got to have words in that head of yours. You never had a problem bitching me out before, or making me laugh."

John's jaw clenches tighter, and he sighs through his nose. "You said you knew where Jim was...the night I came back to Baker Street. Do you still know?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth, grinding them together briefly before he was calm enough to reply. "I was obviously bluffing John, trying to get under your skin...for all I know, James Moriarty has fled the country."

He is both relieved and sad to hear that. On one hand, John is glad that Jim is safe. But on the other, he wishes he knew where the man was. And if Jim was looking for him. "Why would he leave the country?" John whispers absently, not even really realizing he is asking that aloud.

"He does have a criminal web to mastermind. I'm guessing it spans all across the globe." Sherlock shrugs, setting down the rice, and grabbing the container of dumplings. "Besides, do you honestly think he'll be dedicating his time looking for you? Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying this to hurt you- I'm just giving you the cold hard facts."

John flinches anyway, like he has been slapped, and swallows his mouthful of chicken with great difficulty. He would not let Sherlock get to him again. 'Jim is looking for me. He is.' It was the only thought that kept him clinging to what shred of sanity he had left. 

"Where is Mrs. Hudson? You said you kept her alive..."

"She's staying with her sister, decided to take a vacation shortly after you left. She's fine, if that's what you're worried about."

"What about Greg?" John asks, suddenly very concerned about the fates of his old friends.

Sherlock bites harshly into his dumpling, a little annoyed with the blond's barrage of questions. If he knew this was all John was going to talk about, maybe now he regretted getting the man to speak. "Who is Greg?"

John looks at the detective with crinkled brows for a moment, before realizing he probably never asked for Lestrade's first name. He probably never cared enough to ask. "Lestrade." John clarifies flatly. 

"Oh, right!" Sherlock exclaims, "Could never remember his name...knew it started with a G though." He almost sounds proud of himself for that. "I have not spoken to, or seen Lestrade since the night at the pool. I suppose he's fine, unless something happened to him while we were gone."

John nods slowly, not sure if he believes Sherlock, about any of it, but accepting the answers because he'd like to believe it's true. That they're all safe and healthy. "Mycroft told me you cut up one of Jim’s men once, to get information. Sometimes I overheard Seb and Jim talking about...other things you did too. I guess you really like killing things now. And you're very creative from what I've heard."

Sherlock stops biting into his newest dumpling, and levels John with a frighteningly blank look. "It's not that I particularly got many thrills from a lot of the people I killed. True, there was always a sort of satisfaction when taking down Moriarty’s men- but it was only to get information out of them, so I could find you."

"That doesn't make it any better," John says, before he can stop himself.

"Would it have made it better if they were wearing Burqa, and praying to Allah John? Seems like you had no qualms killing innocent people for the greater good as well. It's all just a matter of perspective, a moral grey area that you always refuse to think about! It's okay John, pass judgment like the angel Gabriel- Lucifer can always take the fall."

"WE ARE NOT THE SAME SHERLOCK!" John snaps, growing even tenser then before. "We'll never be the same..." 

"Because you PERCIEVE it that way John!" The brunet snaps back, clenching his chopsticks hard enough to break them in two. "You think we're so different because of your preconceived notions of right and wrong. Well I’ll give you a rude awakening then- we're all murderers. Every last one of us. 

We all vie for life, and in doing so others die. Sure you may not be pulling the trigger now, but someone somewhere out there, a person has died so the rest of us can live. Whether it was a soldier, a civilian, a martyr, a victim- lives have perished so we can prosper!"

"Is that how you sleep at night? By telling yourself that?" John whispers, forcing himself to meet Sherlock's bright eyes, even if the clear blue iris's make his stomach turn.

"Perhaps, but in the end it's no different than you- telling yourself you killed to protect. In the end, it's all the same...you only fail to realize it." The former detective shrugs indifferently, turning back to his food.

John grips his hands into fists, and looks away from Sherlock pointedly. He was not going to continue to engage with him. If he could, John would never say anything to his former friend again. As it is, he is going to try to ignore Sherlock for as long as possible.

"Well...this went to shit." Sherlock mutters darkly, spearing the last dumpling with one of his broken chopsticks. "Now I suppose I’ve touched a nerve, and you're going to give me the silent treatment. You were always like this, so wound up- like a coil, and the smallest things set you off."

"You're one to talk," John mumbles, then frowns because he had just vowed that he was going to ignore the brunet. He is weaker than he wants to admit...

"Oh, that's rich! Coming from short fused Watson!! Why can't you ever think objectively? Your moral compass makes you so single minded, and pair that with your temper no wonder you could never keep a girlfriend!" Sherlock throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, and huffs out as he pouts like a little child.

"If I'm so frustrating, why are you keeping me here?! Why are you doing this to me Sherlock?!" John shouts, unable to keep it in anymore. "Why are you so hell bent on keeping me prisoner, if you can hardly stand me?!"

"Because, you were the only one who treated me like a real person, John..." Sherlock's voice is soft, and sad- rising and falling with the cadence of ocean waves upon the shore. "And because, after everything, no matter how hard I try to shut it out- part of me still loves you deeply."

"So you beat me and break me, and treat me like a toy you can damage for fun?" John's own voice cracks and he looks at the man beside him almost pleadingly. "Sherlock I...I loved you. I would have followed you anywhere. I would have given you anything you asked for. 

And in return you hurt me, and made me feel like nothing but a possession that you wanted to use until it broke. That's the thing that hurts the most. I would have given you my heart if you had just asked, rather than just assuming it could never be yours, and destroying me."

Sherlock's eyes are slightly wider, and he blinks a few times before schooling his face back into neutrality. He looks down at his lap, and sighs heavily. "I'm sorry John...I can't really say anything more than that. I hurt you, I raped you. I'm not going to deny that I did, and I'm not going to ask for your forgiveness. 

But, I know now how utterly wrong I was to treat you like that, to take what was not being offered willingly. I don't even know why I did it...in the end, it just left me feeling hollow."

John doesn't know what it is. He doesn't know if it was the way Sherlock's eyes widened, so surprised and pained. He doesn't know if it was the solemn apology, that for the first time, feels like it could be real. Or maybe, it was the desolation in Sherlock's voice when he said 'hollow.' But, whatever it is that makes him come to this conclusion, John realizes he doesn't want to do this anymore. 

He doesn't want to fight. He just wants... to pretend. And Sherlock has been giving him the option all along. John wants to pretend that everything is fine, and that they were the same people as before; only this time, they loved each other properly, and openly...like they always should have. And it scares him, that he wants that so much. He can't do this anymore, and he refuses to give in and pretend. 

John knows what he has to do. His stomach squeezes almost painfully, and he practically throws the take out box down, scrambling under his pillow for the knife; before he runs for the bathroom. The door has no lock, and Sherlock is hot on his trail, so he pushes all of his weight against the door and sinks down to the ground; the knife shaking in his hands.

"JOHN!" Sherlock screams, but it's more out of fear of what the man is thinking, than actual anger. He runs towards the bathroom door, and shoves it open; chest heaving from the adrenaline rush, to see the blond sitting on the tiled floor, trembling and holding a useless butter knife; like it was an instrument of destruction or something. "John..." Sherlock whispers quietly, sinking down to his knees a few feet from the doctor, and holds out his hand.

"D-Don't..." John whispers, but it's weak and broken. His eyes are filling with tears, but his grip on the knife is strong as he turns it towards himself, right between his ribs where he can do the most fatal damage. "I'm tired Sherlock. I'm so...so tired and I can't do this anymore. I just can't."

"Put the knife down John." The brunet says, tone steady and even. "It won't be a fast and easy death, if you manage anything at all...most likely you'll just severely injure yourself, and I’ll have to take care of you- do you want that? I’ll have to touch you every day and keep you restrained until you get better. I won't want to, but if it means saving your life John, I’ll do anything. Please. Put the knife down..."

John sobs sharply, only clutching it tighter. "It has to work...please it has to...I can't do this anymore...I can't live like this. There's so many memories, good memories, in my head and I hate them because I want them. I want you back Sherlock, as you were. I want to go back to how it was. 

Even with all the bad...BAD memories that refuse to go away...I want the old us back. But I’ll never have that. I want to pretend, say that it's okay and just pretend. I thought I was stronger than that...but all I want is to pretend. More than that though...I just want it to stop. Oh god, I just want it all to stop!"

"John please..." There's desperation in Sherlock's voice, as he pleads for the blond to listen to him. "Don't do this, don't try to take your life. I can't let you do this John, I’ll fight you if I have to- I don't want to hurt you anymore, but I will do what needs be done to ensure your safety. Please...don't make me do this. 

Just put it down, and then I can make you some tea- I'll do ANYTHING! Just don't...don't make me hurt you again." Tears are actually welling up in his cyan eyes, and Sherlock tries in vain to blink them away as he stares at John's face intently.

John sobs harshly, cringing at the very real, very frantic desperation in Sherlock's voice. He is begging John not to hurt himself, begging him not to make the brunet hurt him. And it just makes his heart throb in his chest as John's mind wars against itself. He wants to make this all end, or at least try. But, he also wants to drop the knife, and curl up in Sherlock's arms and cry. 

Indecision splits John right in half, so he is sure Sherlock can see all the raw pain radiating from his mind and heart. But finally an odd sort of numb falls on him, and whispers softly in his ear; encouraging John to just find peace already. "I'm sorry Sherlock..." John chokes out, before summoning every bit of his retained military strength, and screaming out as the dull point of the butter knife pierces his skin– and sinks in past his ribs.

Sherlock chokes off a sob that bubbles in his chest, instinct immediately taking over and he lunges forward; grabbing a hold of the slippery handle, covered in the iron tang of blood. The smell he had slowly started to love, turns his stomach now as he presses down on John's wound with trembling hands. "John," Sherlock's voice is edging on hysteric, as he looks up into the man's glossy blue eyes. "John tell me what to do, please stay with me- don't give up! You can't...you can't ever take your revenge on me if you die and..." he stops, fishing around for motivational words. 

"A-And you'll never see Jim again, please please please! Tell me what to do John..." The blood is starting to pool around his pale fingers now, soaking John's shirt front and Sherlock's trousers as he slowly begins to cry silent tears, because he doesn't know what to do! All this knowledge, and now when he needed it most, his mind palace has decided to up and vanish- leaving him lost, and frightfully ill prepared for what he needed to do to save John's life.

John grunts out a pained huff as Sherlock pulls out the knife, and applies pressure. He can't help but smile a little, for some reason finding the younger man's concern somewhat endearing. "S-Sherlock...you're really bad with bedside manner..."

"D-Don't waste your energy making jokes John, just tell me what to do...I know I need to apply pressure, but what more can I do?!" He is looking straight into John's eyes, his own roving back and forth as he silently begs the man to keep the strength to stay conscious, and walk him through what he needs to do.

"I-I'm not going to tell you Sherlock..." John whispers, grimacing as the desperate brunet applied more pressure.

"Fine," Sherlock growls out, and with an insane rush of adrenaline, lifts John up into his shaking arms. "You won't help me, then by all that is unholy, I will save you myself!" He walks back into John's room and then towards the door. Shifting just a bit to free his hand, Sherlock punches in the four digit code, and the door slides open. He then rushes towards the kitchen, and immediately sets the injured blond down onto the table top. 

Without preamble Sherlock grabs the hem of John's shirt, and yanks it up and off his body, before pressing it down over his wound to help staunch the flow of blood. Panic quickly sets in though, so he breathes deep and exhales a few times to help collect his wits. Sherlock's eyes land on the stove, and then one of the big, sterile kitchen knives that's never been used. "This is going to hurt John, I'm sorry..." he murmurs, before walking over and grabbing the knife, and then twisting the gas stove up on high. The flames flicker, and dance for a moment before he places the blade in the fire, and waits for a minute. 

When Sherlock feels like the metal might be hot enough, he turns back and lifts up John's shirt. Without a second thought, he presses the blade flat side down onto the man's bleeding wound; and cauterizes it to the best of his abilities.

A scream wrenches from John's lips as burning pain shoots through him; and he grabs Sherlock's wrist, trying to push the blade that's burning him away. "Sherlock stop! Please just stop! It won't even matter, especially if I've pierced an organ!"

"NO!" He shouts back, and with what strength he has left, Sherlock grabs John's wrists and pin them down with one of his large hands. "Don't you dare make me give up on you John Watson, not after all we've been through!"

John groans in pain, and squeezes his eyes shut; trying not to think about the red hot blade searing his skin closed. "S-Sherlock please...please just let me go..."

"I can't John..." the brunet's voice quivers, a soft treble of anguish. "I can't let go of the only person who matters so much to me, they can drive me to the brink of madness. John...please, keep fighting. I can't live without you John, and maybe that's your goal. Because if you die, I die too. 

Let me save you John...please." Sherlock trails off, and now he is truly crying, body wracking sobs of agony over what has led them to this- this point of no return.

There is so much pain, and exhaustion, and shock is starting to kick in. But somehow, John keeps hold of consciousness. For now. "I'm sorry Sherlock...really I am...but I'm not sorry enough to help you..."

"I'm not letting you go John!" Sherlock proclaims, in a dark and heated whisper. His hands are still trembling, and nervously he begins to look around for something- anything to jump out at him, to use in saving John's life. His gaze lands on the phone attached to the wall, and in all his infinite wisdom, Sherlock Holmes had completely skipped over the most obvious solution. With determination he walks over, and picks up the phone- dialing the man who had hesitantly agreed to be his own personal physician in John's absence. 

A few hundred pounds a month ensured the man's loyalty to him, after all Sherlock knew better than most the lengths people will go to, to support a crippling drug habit. Fisher picks up on the other end after a few rings and mumbles a quiet, 'Hello'. Immediately Sherlock launches into the details of why the doctor needs to come over NOW. "My friend John, he's been terribly depressed lately...he turned a very blunt knife on himself and I need you to come and close the wound- he'll also need a blood transfusion, type B positive. Get here as soon as you can, and I will make it worth your while."

Sherlock hangs up abruptly, knowing the man will be practically falling over himself in an attempt to please him, after all, with the kind of money he will be promising him, the man would finally be able to buy some of the good stuff.

John only half listens to what Sherlock is saying, to whoever is on the other end of the phone. Probably a doctor of some kind. He just hopes it's an inadequate doctor, someone who will mess up or let him die. John just can't understand why Sherlock is so intent to save him, when the man had threatened to kill him not too long ago, for taunting him. "Sherlock...you're being stubborn..."

"Be quiet John, save your strength for now before the doctor gets here." Sherlock commands, though it's in a tone of firm caring, and concern. He walks back to John's side, and presses his hand against the man's cold, and clammy forehead, and frowns. 

"I know you've given up...but that doesn't mean I have. I'm going to do everything in my power to save you John, and when you get better we'll watch all the Doctor Who you want, and I'll make you french toast like I did for your birthday that one year, remember that John? You said it tasted like your mums, and I told you that Mrs. Hudson showed me how to make it... Please John, hold on just a little longer."

"Sherlock...it will never be the same...as much as I’d love to pretend...it just won't...I'm sorry..."

"Why...? Why can't you just TRY? I'm doing my best to make up for everything, but you just keep shutting me down." Sherlock's fingers curl up into John's sweaty, bristle short hair, and rake through it gently. "The doctor will be here soon, he's going to fix this no matter how eagerly you wish to die- he is a very competent man. 

Just stop fighting this John... In the end, why can't we just live in a castle built upon a cloud of dreams? Why is that so hard for you to do...?"

"You're... ah– you are more delusional then I think, if... if you believe such a place exists for us..." 

A buzz rings from the front door, and with a parting look of exasperation, Sherlock goes to let the doctor in. "I tried my best to cauterize the wound, it was all I could think of doing before I realized I could call you." He informs Fisher, as they walk into the kitchen. 

The doctor takes a long look at John's pale, slightly shaking form- the puffy, blistered skin on his side and haunted, wild look in his deep blue eyes. "I'll have to check for internal bleeding, and to see if he pierced anything vital." Fisher murmurs, shuffling around in his bag for his stethoscope. When he's found it, he places the plug ends into his ears, and then presses the cold, metal disc against John's burned flesh; an intense look of concentration pinching the young man's olive skinned face.

John's face crinkles in pain, and he squirms uncomfortably. "S-Stop...just stop please..."

Fisher's cold brown eyes blink surreptitiously at John's weak protests. "I don't detect any signs of internal bleeding, though it's hard to have conclusive evidence without an MRI." He turns back with practiced ease, and pulls out a bag of blood and a tube with a needle at the end of it. "Hold still sir, I'm going to hook you up to this now."

"N-No just stop...please..." John pleads with this doctor, but he just ignores him. He turns his bright eyes towards Sherlock, but he looks even less moved than the doctor.

"I'll stay here for a few hours, consistently check up on his vitals. If nothing changes though, we will have to take him to hospital." Fisher says, his voice a listless baritone with a cadence of detached superiority. 

He turns towards Sherlock, and pins him with his empty gaze; like a butterfly against a curious boy's little board. "I can't say cauterizing his wound was the best approach, but it did stop him from bleeding out. We can only hope for the best- now, perchance, may I have some tea?" Sherlock nods numbly in response, raking his eyes over John's wretched countenance, before turning and setting the kettle to boil.

John waits until both their backs are turned, to fumble with the needle in his arm; pulling it out with a wince. He grabs his side, trying to mentally prepare himself for the pain of moving, before he makes himself sit up and weakly slide off the table; stumbling a little. I have to get away...I have to find someplace to hide and someplace to let myself die. I don't know how many locked doors I’ll come across, but there must be some small corner, some kind of hole to hide in, somewhere in this house.

Of course Sherlock hears the heavy thumping sound of feet falling to the floor, and so he whirls around in time to see John trying to hobble weakly away. "God damn it!" He barks out, and strides swiftly over, and grabs John roughly by the shoulders; and then he is shaking the man, staring into his fear-blown eyes as he shouts into John's face. 

"STOP THIS!! YOU ARE NOT GOING TO DIE ON ME, NOT TODAY. NOT TOMORROW! NOT UNTIL YOU ARE OLD, AND GREY AND FULL OF A LIFETIME OF STORIES TO TELL!" Sherlock turns his head, and glares at Fisher. "Get something to sedate him, for god's sake, you better have something in that bag of yours..." he growls threateningly, and the young man pales a bit, but nods his obedience. 

He rushes to his bag, and pulls out a vial of clear liquid, and a needle. He fills up the vacuum, and walks over to the two calmly. "Hold him as still as possibly please, Mr. Holmes."

"No! No stop! Don't do this!" John screams, bucking and struggling in Sherlock's hold as the needle comes closer to him. He knows, if they sedate him, that by the time he wakes up again, he will never have another chance to end this. To finally make it all stop. And he can't allow that, not without a fight.

John is wriggling and writhing in his arms. Sherlock can feel his heartbeat, thundering itself silly against his chest; and the fear, and despair in the man's stormy-blue eyes is crippling. But Sherlock pulls himself together, grabs John's right arm, and pins it down so it can lay still at his side. 

Fisher looks at John, then at Sherlock, before piercing the needle into the blond's soft, fleshy skin at the crook of his arm; and pushes the liquid into his veins. "I'm sorry John..." Sherlock's voice quivers, and tears are threatening once again to fall, as he holds the man tighter, and buries his face into the crook of his neck. "It's for the best John...it's for the best."

"No...no please...Sherlock please..." Slowly his limbs grow heavy, and his eyelids droop shut as John starts to sag against his captor. "Sher...Sherlock..."

Within mere moments, John is a heavy weight against him, limp and unconscious. Without a word, Fisher helps Sherlock move John to his room; and then heads back into the living room/kitchen to fetch his things. Alone, Sherlock stares at the older man's deceptively peaceful features. It would be so easy to fantasize that John was merely in a deep, natural sleep after a long day at work, and he has come home to find the man asleep in their shared bed. Sherlock smiles wryly, the fantasy not too far off from the reality they could have had before this whole ordeal... he still can't understand why he did what he did to John, and all those other people. 

But he has slowly been reawakening to his senses, as if he was an outsider watching another man take control of his faculties; and now he was regaining control. It's left a cold terror deep in Sherlock's bones, because now he is left alone to face the demons of his actions. He had his fun for a while, but now it was time to pay the consequences...and the devil always claimed his price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another round of Who was who?   
> redroses100: John   
> Loreyulia: Sherlock and Fisher. 
> 
> I would also like to point out that Andorf (from the previous chapter) and Fisher do not belong to Conan canon; they are simply two blokes invented for story purposes.


	12. The veil descends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has finally come for John to let the other shoe drop, and give in to what Sherlock wants-- a dream world, where none of the pain ever existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks around the corner sheepishly* Sorry this has been so long forthcoming, but finally chapter twelve is finished. Redroses100 and I hit a rough patch, but now every thing is fine and we are back to deliver you more of this twisted tale. I hope you enjoy it, and please leave a review to let us know how you feel about the unfolding plot. Cheers!

The Thinning Line   
Chapter Twelve: The veil descends 

His head hurt. That is the first, and foremost thing John Watson can think of when he begins to awake. It hurts so much, that for a moment, he can not think of anything but that fact. But he hears something beeping in the distance, and slowly the throb dies, allowing more conscious thoughts to bleed in. 

The first of these thoughts turns immediately to his last thoughts of panic, and pain– and from there, the events of...whenever it was he was awake last, start to bleed through into his consciousness. He had tried to kill himself. 

It hurt. More than he thought it would. But the cauterization hurt much worse... so did the feeling of desperation he felt upon realizing he probably would not die. Sherlock wasn't going to let him. Which brings John back to the present. 

They sedated him and now, here he is. Wherever 'here' was. He still can't make himself open his eyes, and look to see. Someplace with morphine, he wagered, based off the now lack of headache. 

His wrists feel heavy though, and for a moment he remembers waking up naked, and bound to a headboard. But John forces the memories down, in order to remain at least a little rational. This, he suspects, is not the time to freak out. Not quite yet.

–

Three days. It's been three whole days since John tried to take his life, and Sherlock Holmes is still visibly shaken by it. Doctor Fisher was good at what he did, and even with a lack of medical supplies he still managed to pull John through the worst of it. Now, the only thing that stood in the way, was John's recovery and his mental state. "Fuck..." he murmurs, running his hands up and through his hair, and clenching there. 

This was all so...twisted. How was he going to help Watson come back to who he once was, when Sherlock was the cause of all this? But, he had to try. If not Sherlock, then who? That was the worst part of this...even if he wanted to heal John, body and soul, he still couldn't bring himself to let the man go. 

It was half past two in the afternoon now, so Sherlock forces himself up off the stiff sofa, and makes his way towards John's room. He breathes deep, and with a firm resolve that he didn't really feel, he opens the door.

John hears the door open, and then after several long moments, he hears a heavy sigh. And he would know that sigh anywhere. 

His heart aches for the times they once had, and in that moment it breaks for what he decides will be the final time. John doesn't care how much it will hurt when the other shoe drops, he is going to pretend. He's going to pretend that everything is fine. That Sherlock never went bat shit insane, and almost killed him. He will pretend he never loved Jim, that nothing could ever make him stop loving Sherlock Holmes. 

John will pretend...because, he is tired; and if Sherlock won't let him die, then the man better let him pretend. He takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes, taking in the brunet's weary and ragged appearance. Oh Sherlock...never taking care of yourself... 

"Hello..."

Sherlock's head snaps up, when he hears John's hoarse, tentative voice. The man's storm-blue eyes are trained on his face. A tiny crease of discomfort is marring the skin between John's eyebrows, but other than that he looks...fine. 

"John!" Sherlock exclaims, and moves swiftly to the blond's side, and does his best to read John's vitals. With trembling fingers, he smoothes the man's rumpled hair out as best as he can; words completely lost to Sherlock in this moment.

John closes his eyes briefly as Sherlock's fingers drift through his hair. How many times had he wished for the genius to do this, before everything happened? How many times did he dream of the domestic bliss of having Sherlock Holmes playing with his hair? John lets himself smile a little before opening his eyes again, and once more taking in Sherlock's disheveled appearance. "You look like shit," he whispers, a little ruefully.

Sherlock snorts a laugh, because John's words aren't harsh, or mocking; they are delightfully sarcastic, with an echo of fondness rounding out the jagged edges. "Apparently you haven't seen yourself lately then, I'm a model in comparison." He jokes back, a little hesitantly because he knows how much John hates being reminded of how they were in the past. The brunet grows serious rather quickly though, as he traces idle patterns into the soft bristles of hair along the nape of John's neck. "How are you feeling?" 

"A little drowsy...a little dizzy. To be expected really," John murmurs, and glances over to confirm his suspicion that it is indeed morphine clogging up his brain so effectively. He tries to reach out to turn down the tab, and only then does he notice the weight on his wrists were in fact, hospital restraints keeping his wrists tied to the side rails of the medical bed he is in. John's brows scrunch together in confusion for a moment before he pushes the pretending to the side long enough to remember that for what he did, measures like this were to be expected. That the restraints were to be expected. But he still turns a pleading gaze up to the man beside him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's gaze follows John's, and he realizes instantly what the man wants. "Do you want more, or less morphine, John?"

"Less please...I'm all muddled..." he murmurs. As Sherlock moves to the other side of his bed to make the adjustment, John tugs idly at his arms to test the strength of his restraints. He frowns at them, not liking them at all.

Sherlock dials the dosage number down, and then gives John a wary smile. He sees the blond eying his restraints hatefully, and he understands why. Not only was John a proud, strong man, but they also dredged up...painful memories. "I'm sorry John..." he whispers, and looks away ashamed. "I can't undo your restraints until the doctor says you're mentally sound enough to not make another attempt on your life."

"I understand," John mutters, and as a doctor he really does. As a patient though...he hates them, and wants nothing more than to throw a raging fit, or guilt trip Sherlock into taking them off. It would be easy to guilt trip the brunet...after everything that's happened. 

But he can't bring any of it up, without first bringing it back into his mind. And John is happily pretending none of it happened at the moment, thank you very much. "How long have I been...asleep."

"Three days," Sherlock replies, his fingers lightly tracing the restraints around John's wrists.

John's mind immediately tries to put a time line together and figure out the damage using the time line, and so he doesn't realize for a few minutes that he is being really silent, and probably making Sherlock uncomfortable. "Sorry...old habits..."

"There's...nothing to be sorry for...John." Sherlock bites his lower lip, and looks away from the fragile looking man on the bed. "Well, I guess I should go call the doctor."

"Sherlock..." John murmurs before the man leaves.

The brunet turns back, and looks at John thoughtfully. "Yes John?" His gaze sweeps over the older man's face, and he tries to gauge what he is thinking right now.

"I...before, I said...I said I wanted to pretend...but I wasn't quite ready to I don't think. I...I want to pretend now." He tells Sherlock softly, keeping his face down.

Sherlock falters for a moment, before a tiny smile curls at the edges of his lips. "If...if that's what you want. I- I shall endeavor to do my best, to make it all disappear."

John does his best to smile back at Sherlock, before he draws the curtain over everything he wants to keep hidden away. Then his smile grows wider, and by all appearances, more genuine. "Thank you. Would you mind bringing water? When you come back?"

Imperceptibly, Sherlock's cyan eyes widen, but he merely nods. "Of course. Is there anything else you may want?"

"Not at the moment." John shrugs, and turns his attention to looking around his new room. It looks more sterile and reminiscent of a hospital than he would prefer, but it's nice.

"I'll be back shortly then." Sherlock's smile widens in return, and then he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him. 

He leans against the closed door, his head thumping back against the wood. Whatever that was in there, has just left him in a dizzying array of emotions. He doesn't know what changed John's mind...but whatever it was, he will take it for now. Sherlock pushes off of the door and heads towards the cafeteria area in this private hospital, to fetch some water.

As soon as the door closes, John's bravado falls– and he stares at the wood of the wall, face decidedly set in a frown. He has decided to pretend, and Sherlock is obviously pleased. But part of his mind is still fighting. It's screaming at him, and demanding answers as to why he would ever just give up. As much as he wants to ignore his annoying inner voice, all it needs is a little rationalization and it'll shut up forever. Hopefully. 

Truthfully, John doesn't like the idea of giving up. But really, it's more along the lines of self preservation than giving up. Obviously, if he tries to stay resistant, he'll go insane. Pretending that everything is normal, and okay is a very respectable tactic. More respectable than half assed suicide attempts, he would think. 

All he is doing is trying to accept this newest turn in his life. Obviously, Sherlock wasn't going to just give him up, and if he knew Sherlock at all– John knows that the genius has devised a truly foolproof plan of keeping people far away from them. He doubted Mycroft or Jim even knew where they were, and he somewhat doubts if they'll ever find out. It's easier, and better for his health, to just accept that he is not leaving this place for a very long time– if ever. And if Sherlock is at least acting like his old self, why shouldn't I? 

Self preservation. Self. Preservation.

As Sherlock walks back to John's room, he runs into the doctor and informs him of John's situation. Fisher looks reasonably suspicious for a few moments, and tells the brunet that he will come check on Mr. Watson when he's done with another patient. Sherlock nods, and then he continues on his way. "Here you go John," he exclaims once he reenters the man's room.

John jumps a little at Sherlock's abrupt arrival, but pastes his smile back on now that he has gotten his rationalization out of the way. Self preservation. Self preservation. Self—

"Thank you Sherlock."

"No problem John," he mumbles, and walks over to hand the blond the glass of ice cold water. Sherlock's fingers brush past John's and linger for only a moment, before he snatches his hand back and looks away.

John can't help but smile a little at the man's awkward, and shy behavior. Like a teenager unaware of how to act around a crush. He takes a sip of the water, and then puts it in his other hand. He purposefully brushes Sherlock's hand with his now empty one; smiling more at the innocence of the gesture. It's been so long since he has been able to enjoy such simple, sweet acts and it's...so nice.

Sherlock's fingers twitch involuntarily, the warmth and texture of John's calloused hands igniting a path of fire up his arm. "John?" He murmurs, a question lilting at the end.

"Yes Sherlock?" He asks, and takes another sip of water to hopefully look less jittery than he feels.

"Can I...can I hold your hand?" Sherlock's stomach is feeling all wibbly wobbly inside, as he looks into John's stormy blue eyes.

The man in question sucks in a breath to keep his insides from fluttering away, because honestly he is already letting himself forget everything that has transpired over the last few months; and in this moment he can pretend that they were back in 221b. And besides the restraints, it's easy to pretend they were just sitting together, and Sherlock is being adorably shy about asking to hold his hand. So John nods, a smile on his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that."

It's like light is pouring from Sherlock's answering smile, as he perches on the edge of John's bed. Slowly, he twines his fingers into John's, and rubs soft circles along his strong knuckles.

Sherlock's hands are smooth, like John always thought they would be; except for the calluses on his finger tips, he earned from playing the violin. John's smile grows as he remembers the genius's playing- even if it was at 3 in the morning because he was bored. "You have such talent... When was the last time you played?"

His hand twitches a bit, before Sherlock grasps a little tighter. His eyelashes lower, hooding his cyan eyes shyly while he smiles. "It's been far too long...perhaps, when you are able to leave, I can play for you when we go home?"

John's heart jumps at the thought of going back to Baker Street, but he realizes quickly it won't be where they go. Still, going somewhere, anywhere Sherlock Holmes called home...it sounded, nice. So John smiles, and nods. "If you want. I know you don't like playing on demand."

"I'll play whenever you'd like John, in fact...I've been composing a song, just for you– ever since...well, ever since before..." he trails off, and frowns. "I'm sorry..."

Immediately, John's smile drops and he has to close his eyes for a few moments to keep an onslaught of memories from storming into his head. "Sherlock...please don't say you're sorry...please don't– because it will only make me think about... it ...and I can't think about it if I'm going to keep pretending." He whispers, keeping his eyes closed tight.

"Alright..." Sherlock says slowly, and his grip tightens on the hand resting in his own. "John, I want you to be happy; I'll do my best for that to happen."

John takes a few more deep breaths, and wills away any lingering memories– before he pastes a smile back on and opens his eyes.

Sherlock blinks, and looks deeply into John's stormy eyes. Without really thinking about it, his head has tilted to the side, and he is moving in closer; but he catches himself in time.

Oddly, John finds himself surprisingly disappointed that Sherlock caught himself; but he doesn't say anything. Just pouts a little, tiny bit.

The brunet's gaze flicks down to John's shapely lips, such a sweet pink, flushed color. Sherlock sees his pupils dilate, and as his fingers curve against John's wrist, he can feel the man's pulse elevate. "I want to kiss you...can I?" He asks, just to reassure that he is picking up on all the right signs.

John hesitates for a moment, his mind interjecting with an unwanted, 'What would Jim think if he knew?' but he pushes that thought away fiercely, and nods. Jim wasn't there. He wasn't, and even if he was...well everything that happened...it all happened because of him anyway. From the very start. But since John is pretending, it didn't happen, even the precious moments spent with Jim were nothing but a long remembered dream. 

"Y-Yes."

Sherlock takes in a deep breath, and leans forward. His lips brush John's delicately, a bare hairs breadth away from a full kiss; but he is hesitant...what if, what if he did it wrong? It was an irrational thought, but Sherlock couldn't help thinking it none the less.

John sighs a little at the first touch of Sherlock's lips, but he can sense the man's insecurity, and doubt. With a soft smirk, he leans forward and presses his lips fully against Sherlock's; his eyes fluttering shut as his heart starts beating even faster.

"Ahhh..." Sherlock moans out, a deep and gravely rasp to his voice. He pushes against John a little more now, the heat of his lips a welcome distraction from his own swirling thoughts and emotions.

Sherlock's lips are warm and chapped, from biting them John imagined, against his. And for a long blissful moment, it's wonderful. But against his most fervent attempts, the memories come. Memories of a bed sheet tied around his wrists, and Sherlock pounding painfully into him. Memories of anger and hurt– and all he could think to do to make it stop was to kiss the brunet. 

All at once John panics and recoils, the memories becoming too much. "NO STOP!!" 

With a wet smacking sound their lips part, and even though John's eyes are sweet and hazy- there's still fear swimming in their depths. His own eyes widen, and Sherlock starts to stammer out apologies, not really knowing what else to do or say.

"Stop, just stop!" John demands, and scrambles internally to lock the memories away again. They have to go away! They have to.

"I've stopped John, it's okay...it's okay- I won't kiss you again, I promise." Sherlock hastily amends, his hands hovering uselessly above the blond's in a placating gesture.

"I meant stop apologizing." John grits out between his teeth, and takes another few moments to calm down before he takes one last, large breath, and sighs it out slowly. "I'm sorry...I just...It's harder than I thought it would be..."

"I know...it's okay John." Sherlock replies, and sits back a little further from the man to give him more space. "I can leave, if that will help?"

"No, please don't leave me alone..." he feels panic start to rise again, though he fervently refuses to remember all those times Sherlock left him alone to stew and doubt himself. "Please..."

"Alright, don't worry- I won't leave you." Sherlock's voice is soft, and in a moment of daring, he cups his hand against the side of John's face; his thumb rubbing idly back and forth against the tired lines under his eye.

John lets himself relax, closing his eyes and enjoying the gentle scratch of Sherlock's calloused thumb on his skin. "Please don't leave me Sherlock."

"I won't John, I'll never leave you," he whispers, and leans down to press his forehead to John's, and he closes his eyes.

He doesn't know if it's the morphine or the excitement over the last few minutes, but John is suddenly exhausted. His fingers reach out for Sherlock'ds, even as his eyes start to drag close.

"Just sleep John, I'll be here when you wake, if that is what you wish."

He nods quickly, and whines a little when Sherlock moves his hand even further away from his own.

"It's okay John, I'll just be in the arm chair over there if you need anything. Sleep well."

Sherlock stands, and turns up the tab on John's morphine with a gentle smile curving his perfectly sculpted mouth; and like that, he is gone. 

– 

Through days filled with CT scans, transfusions, and crap hospital food– John Watson always had a companion by his side, shadowing every moment. He didn't particularly mind Sherlock's presence any more, in fact he welcomed the hours filled with conversations about Bach and bee's; about a new experiment in which the genius exposed a particular strain of bacteria to yeast and catalogued the reaction. The biggest difference about their conversations though was that Sherlock now welcomed his input and frequently asked him questions about what he thought, and if he liked the ideas the genius was coming up with. John was at first wary, because even before the incident Sherlock didn't care about his opinion. Now it was like the scientist couldn't get enough of it. 

More precisely, he couldn't seem to get enough of John as a whole. He was constantly nearby, and John sometimes wondered if Sherlock even stayed to watch him while he slept. He was torn between being flattered and creeped out. He decided that while Sherlock was nearby to see every emotion on his face, he'd go with flattered. 

"... and then, before I knew it, the compound reacted in an adverse way, and exploded. Oh, you should have seen Mycroft's face! It was like the time I told him that mummy was no longer letting us have sweets every night after dinner." Sherlock's eyes crinkled invitingly at the edges, as he perched next to John on the hospital bed; regaling him with a rare glimpse into his childhood. 

John let himself smile fondly, trying to imagine such a look on Mycroft's face. He imagined it would be worth any number of befouled experiments. ”Did he tell your mother or scramble to clean it up?” 

Sherlock's face warmed slightly, a nostalgic fondness glimmering in his eyes; the sort of yearning one has for a fairy book childhood long buried beneath the harrowing Tragedy of adult hood. "He helped me clean up the mess, complaining all the while, but lending me pointers for the next time none-the-less." 

”If I had done something like that, Harry wouldn't have hesitated to tell my dad.” His smile sobered a bit, thinking about his father. If he had done something like that, his father wouldn't have hesitated to beat him. Not even for a second. John pointedly cleared his throat. ”So when did Mycroft change from your confidant, to the bane of your existence?” 

He had noticed the grimness haunting John's expression, could vaguely deduce that a childhood spent in hardship was once his boon to bear, but Sherlock pushed those thoughts aside, and grimaced. It wasn't often that he liked to dredge up memories of his older brother and him, always joined at the hip. Once upon a time they were pirates that roved the seven seas of their vast acres of land, red beard at their side. Now, they were bitter rivals, barely able to stand one another's presence for more than it took to inhale the first breath of a greeting. 

"Mycroft... changed, after he left for University. Became more distant, had little to no time for a younger brother who still had his head in the clouds. It matters little though... what chance I had at rekindling what I once shared with him, died the moment I inserted the first needle into my veins, pushing heroin into my system to cope with the hell inside my head." 

A weight settled in John's stomach at the image now in his own head. He hated thinking about Sherlock like that, high, and desperate to not think so much. He hated thinking about Sherlock as anything but what he was now, kind and consumed by thoughts of experiments and gaining more useless knowledge for his mind palace. ”Do you ever regret shooting up that first time?” 

A nerve twitching at the corner of his mouth, the tiniest of tells that spoke of how much that question still haunted him to this day, smoothed over instantly. Sherlock looked away, not wanting John to see the weakness in his gaze. "I don't know if I regret it... perhaps I do, when I remember the pain, and the emptiness I felt when all was said and done. But, it also helped me through the toughest time of my life. I guess it's all a small price to pay, for what I have accomplished." 

John didn't know if he could agree with Sherlock or not, so instead he sought desperately to change the subject. ”You mentioned earlier we'd leave today. How that transformed into talking about childhood experiments is beyond me.” An almost honest smile curled up his lips. Their conversations often took unexpected and dramatic turns these days, it was amazing and amusing. 

"Ah yes," Sherlock cleared his throat and had the good graces to smile sheepishly in response, "forgive me, I got carried away. Always had a problem with focusing on the task at hand, when some thing more interesting cropped up." His smile changed at that, becoming slightly coy and guileless. "I'll be moving us into the new... flat. Whenever you're ready?" 

”Despite being a doctor, hospitals have never been my favorite places to spend my time.” John admitted almost sheepishly. ”I'll be glad to be out of here. Not that it wasn't luxurious or better than a public hospital.” He didn't want Sherlock to think he wasn't grateful for the special treatment. 

"Think nothing of it, John." The brunet stood, and briskly made his way to the door. "I'll be back shortly, I have to converse with Fisher– see if we can spirit you out the back way, so no one notices." 

A curl of anxiety unfurled in John's stomach at the comment, but he made himself smile anyways. ”Sounds like a plan.” 

With a brief nod, Sherlock left John behind in search of the man who had settled them into a cocoon of safety, and warmth; where they could rekindle what remnants of friendship they once harbored. He paced through the empty halls, the bright linoleum cast by dull, flickering lighting. After a few minutes, he located the doctor's study, and knocked once before entering. "We are ready to leave now Fisher. I trust every thing is in order?" 

The man's flat, monotone expression didn't even flinch at Sherlock's sudden presence, and he merely nodded before he buzzed one of the nurses. "It's time to sedate Mr. Watson," he spoke listlessly into the intercom speaker, before switching it off. 

John was sitting up in bed when a timid knock came to his door. A young woman in scrubs entered with a shy smile. ”Hello, I'm nurse Rhein. I understand you're going home today Dr. Watson.” 

John jumped only the slightest bit at the woman's soft, meek voice, before he pasted on one of his infamously charming smiles reserved for pretty young women. "It's nice to meet you, Ms. Rhein. Yes, my partner and I were planning on going... home, today." 

Her returning smile was almost as charming as the doctor's. She came forward, a clipboard in her hands. ”Fantastic! If you'll just complete this survey about your care, we'll get you ready to go in no time!” John took the clipboard eagerly, completely ignorant to the syringe in her scrubs pocket. 

With a jovial smile, and flirty wink, John looked up from his hurried scrawling for a moment and said, "Do all your patients receive such lovely attendants? Or am I one of the lucky few?" It felt odd, and a little forced; flirting with the pretty stranger– but John strove for any source of normalcy, any thing that felt like his old life. 

The nurse did him the pleasure of blushing and giggling. ”You're sweet. I'm afraid I'm not as pretty when you get to know me though.” 

"I'm sure you're–" but John's placating response was cut short the moment the woman sidled up to him, all soft and smelling sweet; only to plunge a needle deep into the crook of his elbow. With a saccharine sweet smile on her lips, she bade him goodnight. His eyelids fluttered, struggling uselessly against the drug coursing through his veins, before he was dragged into artificial slumber once again. 

~T.B.C.~

**Author's Note:**

> In the end this was a story worked on by two people, and so updates will accur as frequently as we are able to procure them. Have a wonderful day, and until we meet again!


End file.
